


Draco's Baking Dilemmas

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baking Chaos, Baking fluff, Draco has tattoos, EWE, F/M, Mutual Pining, POV First Person, Pining, Short Story, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26392792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hello! Welcome to my Great British Bake Off spin-off short story! This is for the amazing niffizzle.It's ten years after the end of the Second Wizarding War and the Ministry wants to have a go at Draco's not the most keen to participating in this television. They do a test run with a baking competition. Draco Malfoy has been traveling the world and has earned two difference masteries in potions. He wants almost more than anything to own and open his own apothecary in an open building across from St. Mungo's. Blaise and Theo convince him entering this competition will improve his public image.He's not so sure, but tries out, and makes the cut.He's not too worried at the competition... until he sees Theo has secretly joined as well. And is determined to out-bake his best friend.Then there's also the problem with Hermione Granger being one of the judges. They left things well enough at the end of eighth year, more than that, for him.Blast dratted feelings for showing their face again here and now...
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 196
Kudos: 147
Collections: Best of DMHG





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [niffizzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niffizzle/gifts).



> FOR DEAR FRIEND, NIFFIZZLE!!!!!  
> Thank you for sharing in the joy and delight of Great British Bake Off with me! <3 And for being your wonderful, amazing self <3 I hope you enjoy this bit of fluff, chaotic, baking nonsense! 
> 
> Endless love and thanks to my alphabet team: Frumpologist, BoredRavenvlaw, blueeyedsue! THANK YOU SO MUCH, LADIES!!! <3 
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not a good baker or cook at all. So recipes and bakes here mate be found in collections one and three of the Great British Bake Off on Netflix. I own no part of Harry Potter or GBBO, and no copyright infringement is intended in the writing of this story. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

“Hello everyone. Lovely to see you all—”

“—Or _not_ see you all, as you lot can see _us_ —”

“—But we can’t see you!” The Weasley twin pauses and looks to his co-host. “Bit like an invasion of privacy, don’t you think, Lee?”

Jordan fixes his gaze to the camera, a feral smirk curling up his dark face. “Or _can_ we see you all after all?!” 

The idiots dissolve into laughter.

I roll my eyes. 

Weasley pulls it together first and makes a sweeping, dramatic gesture to the row of people behind him. 

This is the part where the director reminds us all to smile. Some smile and wave. I don’t want to even give the satisfaction of smiling. It’s a competition assessing competence and skill in baking—not a popularity contest. Blaise’s warning rings loud in my mind: “ _The people need to see_ **_you_. **_The real Draco Malfoy. The one Theo and I know. The one your mum always only sees when she looks at you. This apothecary venture will fail before it begins if they don’t get to know_ **_you._ **

So I smile. 

Chin high, shoulders back, hands solemnly at my side. 

I’m ready for anything. 

* * *

I lied. 

I’m not ready for this. Any of it. 

Not the baking. Not the cameras. Not the cakes. Not the scrambling about, trying to find everything at my station. 

And certainly not the interrogation by Lee Jordan as he leads the judges to my baking station. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

This is all a disaster and I need to leave now. 

I need to—

“Morning there, Malfoy,” Jordan starts. “Can I call you Malfoy, or do you prefer Draco?” 

My jaw is tight and I force a sharp breath to appear relaxed. “Draco’s fine.” I sound like I’m being strangled. 

I can’t look at the judges. My eyes don’t focus on anything about the counter. 

“Draco, morning, then!” Jordan doesn’t miss a beat, beaming as I’m frantically searching for the blasted butter. “So, it’s week one of this competition. Cake week, and our illustrious judges have asked for citrus drizzle cakes for your signature bake. What have you decided to bake?” 

“Right, so I’m baking a raspberry lemon drizzle cake for you all this morning.” 

Jordan, the benevolent host, nods, and asks, “Have you always been a baker? Little Draco getting in trouble about the kitchens?” 

“Ahhhh, not really. You see, it’s..." Too much butter. And is that salted or unsalted? _Shite_. I didn’t check before dumping it in the bowl on the scale. Dumping. Like the amature I am and not cutting and separating blocks because that looks like too much… “Baking. Right. I got started when—too much! Sorry, pardon me, that’s... um—” 

“Breathe, Draco.” 

My eyes shoot up and there’s Granger. Curls glorious and wild, spilling around her shoulders. She’s magnificent. 

I need to look away. 

I can’t see beyond the warm chocolate and coffee brown of Granger’s eyes. And her smile. There’s sunshine and all things gold and soothing in her smile. 

I don’t know what’s happening with my butter, but in the rays of her eyes and smile, I remember seeing the package clearly reading ‘unsalted’ before I unwrapped the butter. A glance down at my scale shows that my mind knows things even when I think my fingers have forgotten. Or I’ve skipped steps. I haven’t. I know this. After almost ten years of this hobby, it’s bloody almost instinct now. 

Granger speaks again. “So, you like baking?” 

“You might say that.” I cut off what I think is seventeen more grams of butter and add it to the bowl before lifting my eyes. Granger’s gaze is inviting and waiting. Aberforth looks like the old, grumpy codger I expected him to be. Jordan is… the same. He hasn’t changed a day from the wanker announcer he was at school. “There’s a precision and science to it, while having rhythm and art. It’s like a dance—”

“Like the waltz?” Jordan cuts in. “Or something with beat and sass like the Weird Sisters?” 

“Depends.” I shrug and add more butter, not wanting to play along much longer with his poking and prodding. I’m here for the baking. I’m good at the baking. Focus there. “I’m keen to open my own apothecary, and in the years experimenting with potions, I’ve come to like baking and trying things in the kitchen.” 

Aberforth opens his mouth now, his blue eyes sharp as he studies my bench. “You’re one of three baking something lemon for us. How will you make yours stand out?” 

_Git_. 

He’s going to be quite the laugh and joy to bake for. 

“I guess mine will be the best one.” 

Everyone laughs along with that as I reach for the sugar. Sugar and butter for a cake. I can do this. I. Can. Do This. 

“You’ve picked excellent flavours, Draco. Raspberry and lemon are classic combinations and always appreciated.” Granger looks around the bench, studying the large tent we’re all gathered and baking under. “All of this… the idea of a televised baking competition in the magical world. It feels so fun and… I never thought it’d take off. It’s really marvelous of Arthur to find all the old televisions for everyone who wanted to watch.”

“Probably wanted to butter all the judges up to vote with his wife.” Jordan elbows Aberforth. “Get it. BUTTER.” 

I strain under the effort to not roll my eyes. They may be bugging out of my head, which would look sillier than if I’d simply given into the urge—

“Or SWEETEN,” he natters on. As if it’s the most brilliant of puns. “Like you’re going to be doing for three cake with all that sugar.” 

Blaise’s voice nags at my mind again. That I just need to make a good impression. My lips part for some remark, an attempt at banter, but it’s that moment that Theo decides to turn around from his workstation to make eye contact with me. The miserable, bloody wanker winks and smirks and turns back to his cake. 

I blink and shake my head. Theo isn’t going to mess with me this early in the competition. I won’t let him. I flash a smile back at Jordan, playing nice. Playing along. “I think I’ll be supplying enough butter and sugar for bribery here—it’s a cake after all. Sweet and smooth.” 

Jordan laughs. Aberforth snorts. 

Granger is smiling, but it’s different than before. Less nervous. Less forced. More natural. More at ease. 

Because of me. I did that. 

And that’s bad. Oh so bad. 

Blaise can hang for this disaster of an idea. I shouldn’t have signed up. I can’t be this close to Granger for weeks and weeks. 

Bugger him. Bugger all of this. 

It seems nothing’s changed at all. 

All this time, and I’m still the sodding cowardly idiot who’s in love with Granger. 

* * *

Not that she’s ever going to know. I chose not to tell her of my feelings while we became friends eighth year at Hogwarts, and I’ve kept to that in all the years since. 

Not that I see her much now.

I hear about her work and comings and goings. I hear all about her practical applications of herbology in potions and healing drafts. I think it’s brilliant, all the research she’s doing for alternative, non-sentient based potion ingredients. I want to talk to her about a partnership of sorts once I open my apothecary. 

I’ve not told her any of this, though, nor do I have any plans to either—especially not the being in love part. Mother thinks I should. So do Theo and Blaise. 

Some part of me is curious if I can be brave enough several years from now. After she’s taken over my lab and has been selling her line of potions in my store. But I know for now I can’t. It’s not even the smallest of options available to me. 

We’re not even proper friends—Granger and I. Neither of us kept up much beyond eighth year (obvious reasons for me), and now we’re little more than acquaintances who happen to bump into each other a few times a year. We have a past we had to work though and move beyond, which we did. And now we don’t associate. 

As it should be. Because she deserves more than me and my past. I’ve damn well tried to move on and see her as little as possible...

Until now. 

When she’s a judge and I’m a contestant. 

One of twelve, actually. So, that’s something. Not too much attention can be spent on me. I just need to collect myself and not muck about these first few rounds. Standing out immediately doesn’t particularly concern me. Not the way it does Theo. 

Theo is another contestant in this baking endeavor. Theodore Nott Jr., Hannah Abbott, Astoria Greengrass, Professor Slughorn, Professor Sprout, Molly Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Oliver Wood, Madam Rosmerta, Padma Patil, a House Elf named Tinker, and myself. 

Theo acts like he’s in it only for a lark and a laugh, but I know he’s looking to have his own catering business someday. He’s not making that public on the just-in-case of getting knocked out in week one. Superstitious rot, because if anyone’s making it to the final round, it’s Theo. 

Because he’s gone all out in a key lime pie drizzle cake. 

Key Lime. Pie. Drizzle Cake.

All those tart, sensuous, sensational flavours in a simple drizzle cake. With a baked buttery biscuit crumble for topping. I can hear as Granger declares it “scrumptious” and Aberforth mutters something about, “different, yet delicious.” 

They skip around in no particular order and somehow manage to come to my cake last. It’s tense. I don’t think I can breathe while Granger and Aberforth taste my cake. I haven’t been paying attention to the others. How their cakes turned out. A brief glance about as George Weasley called time was enough to see they all looked smart. Like proper cakes. 

Mine is… ordinary, I suppose. It’s a tin bake, with the drizzle evenly distributed. I followed a pattern for poking holes before brushing over the drizzle. And I know candied raspberries and lemon slivers isn’t the most grand of decorations, but it doesn’t look too… plain. 

“Beautiful texture,” Granger comments, studying her bite before slipping her fork underneath. “Nice and light.” 

Aberforth says, “Not stodgy at all, and all that drizzle had me worried it would be.” 

His comment confuses me, but I don’t have time to ask. 

They’ve both taken bites and are chewing my cake. 

“Sheer perfection.” Granger’s eyes are bright and helps herself to a _second_ bite. “Light, perfectly flavoured. The perfect blend of tart and sweet. Heavenly cake, Draco.” 

“Yeah, not bad that. A proper cake there, young Malfoy.”

Chuffed. Absolutely chuffed speechless. 

Words of gratitude and pleasure lodge themselves in my throat. I can’t speak them. So I swallow hard and nod, pursing my lips to keep from beaming like an idiot for all of the wizarding world to see. 

I can’t focus on anything as one of the hosts announces the end of the first round. Everyone begins to mill about and taste each other’s bakes, and Theo comes to me first. He says we’re allowed a quarter of an hour before they come to set up for the next round. 

Molly’s lemon and kumquat cake is my favorite—she says she uses margarine like she once read about in an old recipe book Mr Weasley once brought home for her. Kingsley baked a cardamom and cinnamon orange drizzle cake and it’s like Christmas in my mouth. Astoria and Hannah have baked lovely things with warm flavours. Padma baked her with pistachios and I’m surprised by how much I enjoy it. Professor Sprout’s is a lemon and basil combination that’s stunning. Slughorn’s is… simple. Possibly too simple. 

Oliver Wood says he used something called vegan butter and organic lemons and there’s an oat topping on his. He says it’s healthy, which is likely why I don’t like it. It’s impossibly dry, while tasting far too sour. I don’t tell him that, though. Neither does Theo. Blaise would be proud of us.

I breathe easy and try to make small talk in case cameras are rolling until the technical challenge. 

I want people to like me if only for the sake of my future store. 

* * *

The technical challenge is precisely what it sounds like. It’s a challenge that tests the contestants on technical knowledge and skill in baking. The ingredients and measurements are provided but there is minimal method offered with baking this… 

This.

A classic cherry cake. 

I think I remember eating it at tea time summers when I was a child. Before attending Hogwarts. Mum doesn’t care for cherry flavours, so I can’t honestly say I’ve baked this recipe before. 

It’s a cake with fruit, though. How hard can it be? 

Except that it’s harder than I expect. There’s a trick to making sure the fruit is evenly distributed, but I’ve forgotten it. Actually, I’ve forgotten the cherries entirely the first cake I put in the oven. So I mix up a second cake and spend five whole minutes standing still and thinking. Bloody thinking about how to properly add sodding dried cherries so they don’t all sink to the bottom, which will be the cake’s top…

Then I need to think how to even make icing.

It’s only then I truly see how much magic has been charmed and restricted with our instruments and baking equipment. I see how our ovens don’t have magical settings according to bakes—we have to remember to turn them on, too. We the bakers need to know the temperatures and timings to bake everything. Pots and pans can be charmed to stir over the oven, and whip egg whites for meringue. Knives can’t be charmed to chop for us. 

I’m sure there are other limitations, but I can’t think of that now. I need to focus on an icing. Then not burning the cake. Then letting it cool. Should I pop it in the freezer or fridge to let it cool before spooning the icing on? Or should I try piping the icing on somehow? 

I don’t know. Everything flies out of my mind. I don’t even know if I can remember how to ice a fruit type cake. My hands shake as I’m attempting to decorate and make it look pretty. Look like something I can present to Granger. 

Weasley calls time and instructs us to bring up our bakes. We’re to place them behind the pictures of ourselves and be seated on stools as the judges re-enter the tent. I don’t know if my legs will work. Molly’s looks heavenly. Theo’s is sodding _gorgeous_. My mind is caught in a loop of despair and dysfunction as I’m walking up my cake. 

This round is judged blind. Granger and Aberforth don’t know whose bake belongs to whom. 

It’s a tunnel and a fog as they’re going down the line. 

Mine looks all right. They say it tastes all right, too. 

They rank the cakes. I think Slughorn’s is last. I come out sixth, somewhere in the middle. Tinker wins, and I’m not at all surprised. Nor am I disappointed. Theo’s cake is seventh, so I beat him. That’s somehow all I need to give me confidence for tomorrow.

Tomorrow is the final challenge for the weekend. The showstopper. 

I’m ready to try and impress. 

With thirty-six miniature classic British cakes. 

* * *

It’s been a whirlwind, and I can’t keep track of anything other than my method. I’ve timed and practiced and baked and baked all week to have the perfect method to do everything in the time needed. 

I hope all my efforts are enough. 

Actually, I know it’s enough to survive until the next round at least. 

Slughorn’s chocolate cherry cakes were a mess and were apparently as wet as they looked. Astoria’s mini carrot and citrus cakes looked… lovely, actually. Very lovely, but Aberforth thought they were “quite dry.” Padma, Molly, and Kingsley had solid bakes. Theo and Tinker wowed and impressed. Professor Sprout and Molly delighted Granger. Oliver was applauded for his endeavor in healthy experimenting. Madame Rosmerta and Hannah were each declared a little lacking in flavour, and I… can’t help but feel sorry for that. 

I’m sorry for a lot of things in this group. 

Sorry and awkward, but I think I’m trying. Making attempts for civility in the midst of a competition. 

All of that fades away as Granger tells me she loves my bake. 

Loves. 

My bake. 

My mini coffee and walnut cakes. Granger loves them. 

_Loves._

Tinker the Elf is crowned Star Baker for this first week. Slughorn is cut from the tent. Theo makes some remark that I don’t catch as he bundles up. I don’t really catch anything as I take my time leaving. 

Granger enjoyed my bakes this weekend. 

Loved them. 

That’s all that matters. 

* * *

**End of Week One: Hermione**

It’s over. I can’t entirely believe it. A maelstrom of food. A rush and marathon, and I wasn’t even the one baking. It’s chaos, but there’s somehow order and rhythm to it. It’s almost soothing watching all the bakers construct their creations. 

I still don’t know how I’ve allowed myself to be talked into this. Dean Thomas is Muggle-born, too, for Merlin’s sake. And his partner owns a pub. Seamus and Dean know more of food and bakes far better than I ever could… Yet, I’m Hermione Granger. The one without much of a personal life to speak of. The Muggle-born face to bring viewers to the show—or so Kingsley argued when asking me to be a judge with Aberforth. 

Rubbish and nonsense. 

Kingsley, the bloody former-Minister of Magic himself, is a contestant. He’s a wizard still in his prime, and, Merlin. All the wizards, save for Slughorn, are all fit enough to bring in the viewers. Astoria and Hannah are beautiful and sweet and fun. Theo is enough of a personality to steal the entire show. The entire Weasley clan and all their friends will tune in just to see George and Molly; hell, Arthur’s probably watching for the pleasure of using a Muggle television. 

They’ve no need for me. 

I’m simply the only one without anyone or anything special outside of work to make me unavailable. 

I hate when aloneness is used against me. I hate how lonely and void it makes me feel. 

I’m accomplished, dammit. My research matters and I love what I do. 

I repeat that to myself as I slip on my coat and wind my scarf around my neck. 

“See you next week, Granger.” 

I blink, looking for the speaker. 

Mal— _Draco_. It’s Draco. He’s asked us to call him that. I can do that. We got on well enough eighth year, and he’s long since apologised for childhood mistakes and bullying. 

I can pay him that courtesy now. It doesn’t have to mean more than anything friendly and polite. 

He’s holding a hand up, waving at me across the room. Waiting for my response.

Smiling, I wave back. “Good bakes this weekend, Draco.” 

“Thanks.” He tilts his head as if to say more, but his mouth closes. Opens. Then closes again. And opens once more. “Have a good week at work.” 

“Thank you. You as well.” I pause, uncertain if I should add more… _Ah, well_. “And good luck with practicing for next week.” No harm in wishing him well I decide. 

“Right.” He lingers. Clears his throat. Shoves his hands into his coat pocket and nods in my direction.

Then leaves the room. 

Probably a trick of the light I thought I saw a faint tinge of pink across his cheeks before he left. 

More than likely...

The wind is cold and bites at my nose as it whips around my curls and face—but my cheeks are warm. They’re warm and I notice I’m still smiling as I walk to the Apparition point. 

I wonder briefly if my cheeks were visibly pink back then, too. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Thank you for all the lovely and kind reviews in chapter one <3  
> I hope you all enjoy chapter two. I just wanted to make a quick note here that not every week is going to be written about in major detail, because this is really an excuse to throw Hermione and Draco together :) But I hope it's not too confusing to keep up with! Thank you all for reading and all the kudos and comments. 
> 
> Thank you niffizzle for being your wonderful self. Thank you to this wonderful alpha and beta team of Frumpologist, Boredravenvlaw, and blueeyedsue <3 you ladies are just wonderful! 
> 
> The bakes in these chapters can be found in collections 1, 3, and 4 of The Great British Baking Show!

* * *

**Week Two: Draco**

One would think that after a childhood spent at school with none other than Harry bleeding Potter, Chosen One, Boy-Who-Lived-To-Create-Chaos, and surviving house occupation by the Dark Psychopath himself, a weekend competition of biscuits would be nothing. 

_Nothing._

One would be wrong. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

I thought wrong. 

The Signature Bake this week is crackers. Not entirely what I’d consider a challenge in theory. Then I practiced it for the first time Thursday night after being holed up all week in my potions lab. Half of them burned, and I worried. And spent all day Friday baking and testing recipes before submitting my final ingredients list needed for the Signature and Showstopper bakes. 

My offering for the Signature Bake Saturday morning is thirty-six caramelised onion and goat cheese sandwich biscuits. 

Yes.

Goat cheese and caramelised onions sandwiched between two savory biscuits. Two biscuits per sandwich. And multiply that by thirty-six. Seventy-two biscuits in the allotted time. I don’t know why I thought this would be any more manageable the third attempt at this. It isn’t. It’s bloody impossible to keep my head straight and I’m concerned they’ll be a bit soft in the middle. 

They’re a bit soft in the middle. 

Aberforth makes that declaration as if it offends him. Granger doesn’t seem to mind. I’m transfixed by the way her eyes sparkle as she chews, and I know before she even says anything else she’s enjoying the subtle combination of sweet and savoury, with the tang of goat’s cheese. She also compliments the uniformity of my batch, and the volume accomplished in such a short time-span. 

I’m elated, but barely even smile as I thank them. I don’t give Theo more than a passing nod and only offer quiet congratulations to the other contestants as we sample each other’s bakes before the technical challenge. 

Wood went with “healthy” again, and they’re dry and disgusting in my opinion—crammed full of seeds and three different types of flour. Theo went for a healthy route too, apparently, and baked thirty-six oat and wholemeal biscuit stuffed with olives, paprika, and rosemary, with a caramelised onion glaze. I want to accuse him of spying on me, but fuck if they aren’t perfect and some of the best biscuits I’ve ever had. I tell him they’ll do and move along before he can smirk in response. 

This is a good round of bakes, I’d say. All pretty diverse, too. I think I expected several similar tasting batches, but everyone’s gone for something unique in spices and extras. Astoria even went for the sweeter route with a thin slice of apple baked atop her cinnamon shortbreads. They make her biscuits even softer than mine, and I’m secretly happy about that. I snag three of Mrs. Weasley’s poppyseed and rosemary biscuits before leaving the tent because they’re _that delicious_. 

I’m again not ready when the time for the technical challenge comes. 

Arlettes. 

_Arlettes_. 

Jordan and Weasley announce the allotted time and dismiss us to bake. 

The recipe is… little help in my confusion. The mix is sparse. Under the measurement of ingredients, we’re instructed to, “Make the dough.” Fine. It reads as a pastry dough. Simple enough. Mix, knead and form into a rectangle before chilling. That’s done, but then there’s the butter preparation. And it seems the butter is to be beaten out to wrap around the dough… as opposed to the usual of dough wrapping around butter. It doesn’t look normal, and I question myself over and over in the midst of all this dough chilling and waiting. There’s a cinnamon sugar mix to spread over the ready dough, and once it’s rolled up, we’re to “slice into very thin ovals.” 

“How thin is thin?” 

I look up to see who spoke my thoughts aloud, and it’s Professor Sprout. She’s glaring at her roll then looking about the room. I catch her eye, then Theo’s, and then Astoria’s. We all huff or shrug (I huff _and_ shrug) and set about our bakes. Tinker is directly behind me and mutters indistinctly to herself the whole time. I wish I could make it all out. No doubt hers will be the perfect bakes…

But they’re not. 

I’m first. 

Me. Draco-never-heard-of-an-arlette-before-now-Malfoy. 

I’m first in the Biscuit Technical of all things. 

Theo is second and Tinker lands somewhere in the middle. Wood is last. 

A decent bake this morning and first in the Technical… As long as I don’t muck everything up tomorrow, as long as all goes to plan with my gingerbread recreation, I think I’ll have a chance for Star Baker. 

Mother may buy an entire candy store out of stock in chocolates and sweets to show her pride. 

* * *

**Week Three: Draco**

I didn’t make Star Baker last week. 

That honour went to Theo for his ingenuity and cleverness with a library ginger and clove biscuit construction: fucking library. It looked bloody incredible, too. 

Tosser. Slytherin wanker _git_. 

Of course Granger cooed and fawned all over it and adored the flavours, too. My humble potions lab—complete with tiny cauldrons and rows of icing painstakingly painted vials—never stood a chance. I remember being impressed with the former-minister’s and Mrs. Weasley’s scenes. Kingsley went with a sentimental appeal: a trip to Paris with his Gryffindor chums, Potter and his witch, Lupin, Black, and Pettigrew. Mrs. Weasley made her humble, chaotic home look like a comforting safe haven, and her gingerbread was right smart tasting, too. Astoria’s wedding scene from Daphne’s two summers ago was “simple” but held together all right. 

Quidditch star Wood was sent home for crumbling biscuits and pre-packaged fondant. Idiot. 

This week is bread week and I’m not worried.

Except that I am. Just a bit. 

Bread can be fiddly and picky. High maintenance—even the soda breads without the fuss of yeast and kneading. Too much bicarb and not enough of this buttermilk and I’ll have a right disaster of a Signature Bake. I didn’t manage enough practice time as I wanted. Mother needed assistance with things that, “Cannot wait, Draco!” and I missed several blocks of time I’d allotted for baking. 

Theo smuggly tells me he’s practiced each bake no less than three times this week. 

“Overachieving wanker,” I mutter under my breath as we disperse to our stations under the crisp white tent. I slip my coat off, remove my scarf and allow one of the hired House Elves to take them to the back area. I accept my apron and pull it over my head. I check the sleeves of my shirt—buttoned at the cuffs, but not hanging over my wrists. I don’t want the cameras to catch a glimpse of my tattooed forearms. Not only that, but clean sleeves are the mark of an accomplished baker. 

I believe the same applies to potions. 

All should be well. 

In theory. 

In reality, I’m concerned I’ve taken on too much for my soda bread. 

“It’s a prosciutto, manchego cheese, basil, and balsamic onion soda bread,” I tell the judges. 

“Cor!” Weasley exclaims. “Right, wait. Hang on.” He holds out a hand and begins to tick off the flavours with his fingers. “You’ve got prosciutto, manchego cheese, basil and then a balsamic garlic—”

“Balsamic _onion_ soda bread.” My head bobs as my eyes drop to my ingredients. I lick my lips. “It sounds like a lot, but each component adds something to the savoury, and it’s a nice layering build I think.” 

“I’m sure you’ve practiced it enough to feel confident with it,” Granger says. My heart and mind are torn between nursing with pride and correcting her kind assumptions, but she continues before I have the chance to make an idiot of myself. “What’s been the trickiest for you to get right with your recipe?” 

“The cheese,” I answer, meeting her waiting warm, chocolate-brown gaze. My fingers trace over my blocks of cheese and I lick my lips again. “I’ve had to play around to get an even dispersion and keep them from forming large clumps. What I’ve found works best is to mix the chunks with flour before adding them to the dough.” 

Granger smiles. “Good luck. You certainly seem to have a handle on this.” 

I don’t look away. Can’t look away. Can’t see anyone or anything else beyond Granger’s encouragement. “Certainly hope so,” I tell her. 

Weasley claps me on the arm and I’m slammed back into the present. Saved from whatever moment my mind fantasises it was having. “Good luck, mate.” He smirks and tosses a wink at me before sauntering off with Granger and Aberforth to the next station. 

I fight the warmth rushing to my cheeks and hope the cameras haven't caught anything. I’m worried I’m only too obvious by now. But it’s not that Granger is aware of my feelings or would even _return_ them… So what’s the harm in confidence in one’s bakes and respect for the judges, right? 

* * *

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Theo is merciless as we break for lunch. 

I didn’t fill up on soda breads, so I actually feel hungry enough for a meal. I duck off campus to make for a café (Remember to Eat Café) across from St. Mungo’s I’ve come to enjoy. It also happens to be right next door to an empty store front I’d like to purchase and use for my apothecary. A perfect spot, in theory. 

“You’re drooling, Draco.” Theo slides into the seat across from me without any other preamble or explanation. He lifts a menu to cover his face, talking with me all the while. “Drooling, fawning, and falling all over yourself and it’s embarrassing. You should have told her how you felt ages ago so she could have turned you down already and you would have moved on by now—Miss?” 

Theo lowers the menu and waves to a waitress. I fight to maintain composure. To not give into the urge to tell him to leave me in peace until I’m forced to see him in the tent for the technical challenge. Theo notices my struggle as he orders. Everything in his stance shouts, “Feral! Evil!” as he’s placing his order. 

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re on about.” 

“Oh, but you do.” Theo laces his fingers together over the table. “You all but burst into rainbows and hearts when Granger went back for a second and _third_ bite of your bake moments ago. It’s likely you didn’t hear anything at all about any of the other bakes in the aftermath of that.” 

Here is where I frown. “To be fair, I’ve not always paid attention in the midst of round one judging in the previous two weeks.” 

“Ah, but the last two weeks—thank you so much.” Theo rights his posture from the accusing hunch over the table as the waitress brings his food. She asks me if I need anything else. I decline, so Theo’s free to continue his idle prattle. “Where was I? Oh, yes: week one, you hadn’t spoken to Granger in years. _Years_. But now you have, and it’s clearly the best thing about this experience for you.” 

I want to shove this table into him, stand and leave. Apparate to safety to keep from hearing this. From hearing how he’s right. I sigh instead. And pinch the bridge of my nose. “Is it really that obvious?” I mumble, afraid to meet his expression. 

“Not particularly,” he says and I’m so relieved and shocked I drop my hand. He’s sitting across from me all smug and proud to have gotten a form of admission from me. “But I know you. I can see all the tell-tale Draco Malfoy-is-smitten signs to look out for. They haven’t changed much in all these years. It’s actually a little cute, if not slightly sickening to watch.” 

“You’re one to talk.” I pick at the cooked meat and assortment of roasted vegetables on my plate, less hungry for some reason. “I’ve seen you disappear with your fiancé on breaks, and return looking all rumpled and smug.” 

“A quick shag is good for the body and we’re an established item.” Theo spears a cherry tomato with his fork and shrugs as he looks back at me. “But Astoria wanted to eat with her sister for lunch today. Or maybe she just wanted me to keep you from doing something incredibly foolish. And remind you to get a grip before all the wizarding world knows how you feel before Granger does.” 

Nodding, I look around the café. Mostly empty at this hour, which makes sense. It’s an early lunch, too early for the medi-witches and definitely too early for more than a coffee or tea for most healers. No one seems to be paying attention to us. I’m still grateful for the excuse of being in a public place to tell Theo to shut it. “Not another word,” I demand. I may even sneer at him as I slice an asparagus spear in half. Then another. “Understood?” 

“I’m not the one you need to worry about, mate.” He shrugs and focuses on his plate. “But, just a thought I had that maybe you should talk to her outside of this thing and get around to telling her someday. Before you drive yourself mad with all the possibility of the unknown.” 

I scoff and eat, even though my appetite’s fled. I hate how right he sounds and how much I wish I could simply give in and do as he suggests. 

If only it were that simple. 

* * *

The technical challenge facing us after lunch turned out to be baguettes. 

I’m a bit surprised by how challenging it is.

I’ve made them before, but it’s not my usual, and apparently it's been a longer time since baking a batch of my own than I’d realised. I found myself acting on what I hoped to be instinct, and then second guessing everything but adding water to create steam in my oven. On that step in the process, I’m absolutely certain. 

I come out fourth in the end. Madame Rosmerta and Mrs. Weasley are tenth and ninth. Theo is ranked fifth, while Hannah and Tinker are ranked first and second. Theo and Astoria crowd around me as we leave the tent for the day, keeping their voices low as they discuss possibilities for going home. 

“Madame Rosmerta sliced her soda bread and it didn’t cook all the way through,” Astoria murmurs. 

“Ah, but good ole Molly Wobbles didn’t impress with her take on a waldorf salad baked in bread,” Theo counters. 

I cant my head at him. “Molly Wobbles?” 

“It’s apparently the mister’s pet name for her.” Theo makes a face. “I wish I didn’t know that, but I overheard George call her that at her station the first week and instead of reaching out and smacking him upside the head like I expected, the poor woman turned white as a sheet. Looked ready to faint or collapse on the spot.” 

I… shiver. It’s a delayed response, but I’m shocked for a moment. And have no wish to think of the Weasley couple behind closed doors. _Any_ Weasley couple behind any room of closed doors. They all have multiple kids by now, minus Percy, and… no. 

No, thank you. 

Not going there. 

Mercifully, we reach the Apparition point and I’m eager to escape. To not have to say or think anything more about it. “See you both tomorrow,” I say, holding tight to my wand, Disapparating to the safety and silence of my flat. 

* * *

**Week Four: Draco**

I thought end of week three was a disaster, but it’s nothing compared to the nightmare that is puddings and dessert week. 

All right. Fine. 

Last week wasn’t a complete disaster. There wasn’t reason to despair. 

The Showstopper challenge was a savoury plaited centrepiece, which turned out all right. As I’d hoped and planned for. My breads were all baked and nothing collapsed or fell apart. Aberforth admitted he wasn’t the most keen on my flavours, but Granger enjoyed them. And they apparently liked the skillset displayed in plaiting three different loaves to construct my woven harvest backest. I’d even taken the time to fill the basket with herbs and flowers used in some potions, as if I could simply carry it out to forage with me. 

It brought enough smiles to calm my nerves. To let me know I wasn’t being cut. 

Theo, former-minister Shacklebolt, Astoria, and Padma all impressed with their combination of herbs, spices, and chillies for flavours. And their bakes were all brilliant. It was Hannah who stole the show with her construction of Italian Dark and Light Rye twists, stuffed with olives and mozzarella. Mrs. Weasley was cut from the tent. 

I’m going to be next this week if I don’t get a grip. 

Get. A. Ruddy. Fucking. Grip. 

“Em, so, my self-saucing pudding is going to be filled with a chocolate, and I’ve got a raspberry compote I’m piping inside,” I tell the judges, “and my sponge will be a chocolate and lime, and I’ve got a dark chocolate fondant for the finish, with some chocolate and lime painted mint leaves and… I hope you all will enjoy.” 

“Merlin’s beard!” Aberforth’s thick, grey eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Have you got enough time for all that?” 

I blink once. “It’s gone to time when practicing at home.” 

“No cheese this week?” Jordan prods. 

“No.” I shake my head. 

“Not even a dash or a cube?” 

“Sorry.” I don’t know why I’ve said that, I’m not apologising. And it wasn’t even Jordan who tasted my soda bread last week. Or had he—I can’t remember at this point. 

“Sounds like you’ve a lot to accomplish, and we’ll get out of your hair,” Granger says as they turn to make for the next baking station. “Thank you, Draco. Good luck to you.” 

My heart leaps into my throat at her wishes of goodwill. I try to swallow it back down. 

I wish I didn’t cling so to her words of luck. Apparently, I need her luck. This bake has all gone horribly wrong, and I’ve no idea why. I think the cake’s over baked, and I don’t know if the middle will actually _be_ a sauce, or a soft centre. The compote recipe doesn’t make as much as I recall at home. And there’s a mess with the chocolate and the mint leaves. 

It’s all rubbish, and I can’t figure out why. 

I bite down on my lower lip to maintain composure. My grip on everything is harder and tighter than normal. I can see the whites of my knuckles, but I can’t loosen my hold on anything. The pain is grounding. It’s the only thing holding me together in the midst of the judging. 

“Em, right.” Aberforth chews and swallows again. Then frowns. “Too dry and that’s not quite a sauce, there.” He picks at the formed centre with a fork. “And I don’t like the combination of lime, chocolate, and raspberry. It’s too confused and doesn’t know what it wants to be.” 

My breath stills and I don’t know if my heart is beating. I somehow manage an acknowledging nod. 

“Shame,” Aberforth mutters, turning for Theo’s bench.

Granger studies the plate a moment longer and lifts her eyes to mine. “The raspberry compote came through well for me, and it was delicious. Chin up for that.” 

Pity kindness. Comfort and soothing as if I were a child whose broom just broke. I want to vanish from the spot. My throat bobs. “Thank you.” 

She smiles and it doesn’t _appear_ placating, but I’m too embarrassed to decide if it’s anything _more_. “Thank you for your bake, Draco.” 

She leaves me alone with my storm of whirling emotions and I’m quiet as the bakers all mingle and sample each other's bakes before lunch. Kingsley’s is the only one I actually taste, all lemon and orange with sugared orange zest as his topper. Everyone else’s bakes look neat and fresh. Padma’s is something different with a pear sticking out of it, but I think of Granger’s pity and I don’t taste the pear. I don’t taste or hear much of anything until the technical challenge. 

Which turns out to be a tiramisu cake. It’s apparently a favourite treat of Granger’s and I want to fall over reading this vague facsimile? of a method. 

It’s fiddly. So bloody fiddly. _Salazar_. 

It’s a ruddy sponge where the batter has to be whipped and whipped to incorporate enough air. And then the flour is sifted in. _Then_ I have to mix without beating too much air out.

This would be nothing were I having a proper week, but right now, I want bread week. I want to pummel a lump of dough to work through my frustrations. Or shatter every platter in this tent in frustration. Then spend hours piecing the platters back together if only to show I can fix things. Make something pretty and good. Do something right. Not just mess up. 

Fail. _Again._

I’ve done something wrong with the sponge though. Probably mixed the sifted flour in too hard, because my sponge is absolute rubbish. A flat and sunken disaster. There’s no way in hell I can slice this nightmare horizontally. 

I don’t know what to do.

Jordan calls out the time, and a quick rundown of the method tells me I think I have time to try and whip up another.

So that’s what I do. 

I focus on the meticulous and concentrate all my attention on the detailing of this process. I’m good with details. No lumps and all air. 

Once my second sponge is in the oven, I check on my chocolate. It seems to be setting, and there’s the desired shine to it. I can focus on the mascarpone cream and keeping it cool while I can. Because it’s going to be layered between slices of still too hot cake. 

It’s messy and irregular in the end and I hate presenting it to the judges, but what’s done is done. The second sponge ended up better than the first, but the cream was all melted. It’s a saving grace I was thorough enough to take care when spreading the brandy and coffee mixture over the sponge. I somehow end up ranked in the middle, but I know I’m on thin ice with tomorrow’s bake. 

Three Tiered Cheesecakes. 

* * *

I despise cheesecake. It’s not my favourite. At all. I find it bland and underwhelming. Far too much effort goes into a bake that always ends up disappointing. 

But I’m here. And I’m going to try. 

I hear hosts Jordan and Weasley discuss flavours with all the other bakers, and some combinations actually sound tempting. Padma, Theo, and Professor Sprout are going all out with exotic combinations and I already know their bakes will turn out amazing. Even if it’s slightly over or underdone, the flavours will compensate. Kingsley is going the berry and lemon route, similar to my white chocolate and berry combination. Tinker is baking a coconut and honey comb that actually sounds intriguing as well. 

Theo’s out to claim the title of Star Baker, I can tell. He’s gone to the trouble to render down litres and litres of butterbeer to have a syrup to flavour his cheesecakes. He’s going to create a different topping for each layer—a chocolate for the top layer, lemon for the second, and a white chocolate for the third. There will be Italian meringue falling over the tiers on one side with ginger and lemon candies scattered about the meringue. He’s even crafted a bottle and is granted permission of a levitation charm to hold the bottle over his cheesecake and meringue construction to give the appearance of a bottle popped open and poured out. 

There’s a horrible sinking in my stomach as I prepare my biscuit base. There’s potential for this to end up too crumbly and not at all supportive enough for each layer. And there’s still the fact I don’t like cheesecakes, so I’ve no idea if it’ll taste all right in the end. 

I’m not confident it’ll hold together. 

Not confident I’ll last another week in the tent at all. 

* * *

**End of Week Four: Hermione**

I’m exhausted at the end of filming this weekend. Not physically. 

Something deep in my bones. 

I can’t stop thinking of work, and I’ve had to be interactive with contestants and a grumpy judge and bubbly co-hosts my two days off. I’m due to present a proposal for funding for research in alterations for _Skele-Grow_ potion to the hospital board Tuesday, and I’d rather do nothing more than sleep for the next three days. 

I can’t sleep for three days, though. I don’t know if I can afford to sleep tonight. 

I need to review my notes, and sift through the list of side effects and complaints once more. I need to review the finances of my proposal again, too. 

Coffee. I need coffee. Loads of it. 

I’m startled by footsteps, and all but stumble back into the corner of the coat closet. 

“Granger.” Draco stands there. Blinking at me in silence. As if frozen in place. Like I’ve made him forget something. “I thought I was alone,” he finally adds, softly.

Like maybe he’d been wishing to be alone. 

I bite down on my lip and shake my head. My curls are a mess after this weekend and I can only imagine what he must think of me. “Sorry. Not quite ready to face the stack of work waiting for me at home.” 

He looks at me, and it’s suddenly as if it’s right _into_ me. Like he sees something in me I hadn’t meant to give away. I don’t know what it is, but I have a feeling he could tell me. 

“Do you have a new presentation coming up?” There’s a softness to his voice that catches me by surprise. My cheeks warm and my heart skips a beat. Or three. (Definitely three beats. I can’t remember the last time one of my friends has asked me about work and actually waited for an answer.)

“Tuesday,” I answer, stepping into the golden evening light of the tent, out of the dark of the closet. “I’ve some questions about _Skele-Grow_ potential and I’d like St. Mungo’s to fund this next project specifically. My previous two proposals haven’t gone to plan and I’ve ended up funding those projects myself with minimal results.” My shoulders lift in a weak shrug. “I tried to tell the Ministry I didn’t have time for this, but everyone else had children involved to interfere with scheduling. I was the only one… _alone_ , as it were.” 

“Rubbish.” Draco scoffs, shoving his hands into his coat pocket. “You’re famous still and anyone would know you have better taste than Potter when it comes to food. All the hours he works, he’s content with a ham and pickle sandwich and a simple carton of yoghurt everyday.” 

Laughter bubbles past my lips at that. I can’t help it. I don’t know if it’s crossing lines to be interacting with a contestant on such a friendly level right now, but it’s after hours… And he’s not wrong. “Harry spent too much of his childhood in need of food of any kind. He’s never felt right to be picky when there’s a full plate in front of him.” 

“Oh.” 

Silence falls over us, and that’s my fault. I want to take it all back if only to have Draco talking again. There’s something melodious in his rumbling voice. A deep and masuline symphony that calls to something lonely and longing in me. 

_Dangerous_ , I think. _Very dangerous_. 

I’m too weary from loneliness to care right now. 

“Do you have plans?” I blurt out. 

“Pardon?” 

“Are you going home to your mother or out for drinks with Theo or Blaise… Or… anyone else, I guess?”

He shakes his head once, grey eyes wide and locked onto mine. “No plans.” 

“How does coffee sound?” I lick my lips and tell myself it’s only my imagination that his gaze follows the brief movement. _It has to be_. _He wouldn’t be interested after all this time. Couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be_. He still hasn’t answered and heat blooms in my cheeks again. “Or dinner, if you’re feeling famished. I’m not too hungry right now, but I could go for… something. Anything, really.” 

“Dinner…? Or a coffee? You and me? Me going with you?” He’s confused and I don’t blame him. 

I offer a friendly sort of smile. Something innocent and genuine. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong in us associating after hours—it’s such a small wizarding community, of course we’d bump into each other during the week. And it’s been several years since we’ve talked—that’s not really your fault—I think—we have lots we could talk about as associates and adults and former classmates—we both have interests in potions, after all, and—” 

“Granger.” He lifts a silencing hand and looks away. Stares at something on the floor beyond me. “It was lovely and thoughtful of you to ask, but maybe some other time. When I’m not worried you’re asking out of pity.” 

“Draco, this isn’t—”

“It’s fine.” He looks back at me, smiles thin and tight. “Sorry, I‘m sure you didn’t mean it like that. But I’m a bit knackered after this weekend anyways. And since I’ve survived to bake another week, I’ve got some planning to do for next week. On top of my other work, too.” 

Disappointment tightens in my throat, choking words and air right out of me. Ridiculous, I know. I blink in rapid succession as I move past him. I refuse to let him see my insufferable tears. “Right.” I sniff, still not meeting his eye. “Okay. Yes, of course. Don’t worry about it; have a good week, Draco.” 

The closer I get to the Apparition point, the heavier my footsteps feel. My pace is slow when I need to be quick. Need to get away from this humiliation as quick as possible. Why would he agree to come with me? He’s worried about appearances, of course. My offer may have been inappropriate and even then, we haven’t kept up as friends after school and— 

“Granger!” 

I turn. Jerk around to the sound of my name, actually. My hair whips around my face with the force of my movement. 

Draco’s running— _running_. Coat billowing in the evening wind as he charges towards me. He reaches me, grey eyes blazing, lighting a fire in me I’d forgotten existed. He gasps a breath and licks his lips once. Twice.

And says, “On second thought, I’d like whichever you’d prefer. Thank you.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hugs!!!!!!!!* thank you guys!!!! Thank you all for taking a chance on this and reading! Thank you for the lovely comments and kudos and I’m blown away ❤️❤️  
> THANK YOU, NIFFIZZLE!!!! You’re a delight and I’m so happy to know you!  
> Final thanks to Frumpologist, Boredravenvlaw, and blueeyedsue!!!! You ladies were just amazing in the writing process and thank y’all!! OH!! And for this chapter, additional thanks to Blessedindeed, tashadlv, and QuinTalon for your input on Draco’s tattoos!!! ❤️💙✨

* * *

**Remember to Eat Café: Hermione**

I’m giddy he accepted. Floating on air to the Apparition point.

We arrive and I see where I work. I see the café. I’m suddenly nervous. 

Nervous to be here. With him. In public. 

A judge. With a contestant. 

I don’t think this would get him disqualified. I hope not. 

_Still._

“We need to establish some ground rules,” I announce as we sit down with our drinks. He’s ordered an Earl Grey tea latte. I’ve ordered a cappuccino with an extra espresso shot. And an iced bun. 

“Ground rules?” Draco swirls his drink and breathes over it. “For conversation?” 

“Yes. To keep this proper and appropriate.”

“Granger. _You_ asked _me._ _You_ asked _me_ to join _you_.”

I lick my lips. Eyes fixed on my drink as my brows lift. “And you said no at first. Because you thought it would be inappropriate and have me looking as if I’m offering favouritism.” 

Draco startles, his drink spilling over the edges of his mug, dripping down to the table. He murmurs and curse and cleans the mess with his wand. Then looks at me. “If I believed that at all, I wouldn’t be here at all. I’d be at home working on a complicated potion like Draught of Living Death to distract me from this weekend and next. There’s possibly a missive from my mother waiting on me at home as it is, and I’m ignoring that either way. I don’t want sympathy right now.” 

“Oh.” I swirl my drink. Swallow hard. Lick my lips again—have I always licked them so?? “So, you really thought this was about pity? And sympathy?”

“Yes.” Draco’s eyes lock on mine and I’m suddenly warm and cold all over. I don’t look away— _can’t_ look away. “Then decided what the hell does it matter. Even if it is, it’s coffee with someone… Someone I haven’t truly seen for a while.” 

He’d paused just then. Stumbled as if trying to decide how to define me. 

“Oh.” It strikes me for the first time I don’t really know Draco. It’s been ten years since the war and nine years since the forming of our friendship in eighth year, and in all that time, I’ve seen his mother more than him. I think of how meticulous his bakes have been. How precise and even he’s tried to be. The care and combination of flavours he’s brought to his bakes. The artistry, too. 

I’m filled with the need for him to see how brilliant he’s been. That one tough day does not diminish or take away from all he’s accomplished. _Hang the competition_. “Your tiramisu cake was good. It didn't place last even after you said you had to bake a second sponge. And I thoroughly enjoyed your raspberry compote.” 

“But the cheesecakes?” he asks, tracing a finger over the rim of his mug. 

“It’s a tricky dessert to master, and, honestly, who goes out to order slices of cheesecake?” Murky, grey waters. That’s where we are, and this is dangerous. But I haven’t blinked. Haven’t dared to blink and break the connection with his iridescent gaze. 

My breath catches in my throat as Draco doesn’t look away either… 

Until he does. Until he studies my face. Then his mug. And the rest of the café. “I see what you mean about ground rules now.”

“It’s the seven to nine PM crowd right now.” I shrug and gesture at our surroundings, as if to downplay what’s happening. Even when I’m not sure what’s happening any longer. I can’t speak to what is happening or what I want to happen. I only know I don’t want this evening to end. I continue: “Everyone’s either had dinner or eaten elsewhere. It won’t pick up for coffee, tea, or pastries again until around ten.”

A half smile crawls up his face at that. “You’re a late night regular here I gather.” 

“Not necessarily. I don’t like crowds much, so I tend to patron places when they’re at their slowest. But I’m here late when work calls for it.” 

“I see.” He takes a sip from his mug. “How is it you came to judge a baking competition then? You’re live weekly in every home watching this experiment in wizarding television; you’ll only be more famous and recognised now.” 

“Merlin, I hope not.” I stifle a groan. It’d gotten to a quiet point, a place where the news had my routine down and nothing much ever changed. Draco quirks a disbelieving brow at me and I try to explain. “I’m an established single adult, you see? I have nothing interesting in my life for the news now. I’m not involved in a scandal with Harry and Viktor in a Triwizard Tournament. I’m not involved in battles at the Department of Mysteries or on the run any longer. I’m not dating or breaking up with Ron—haven’t dated in years for that matter. I’m not married and I don’t have children. I work. I read. I have a cat, and sometimes I bake.” 

The second eyebrow lifts into his hairline. “You haven’t dated in years? _Years_?”

I huff and reach for my iced bun. “All that detail and _that’s_ what you come away with?” 

He shakes his head as I bite into the sweet, comforting bake. “Granger, Granger. Years can mean a great deal. It can be anything from two or five or eight. It’s important to have the specifics. Define ‘years’, please.” 

“Seven.” I lay my bun back on my plate and wipe my hands on a napkin. “Ish. Seven-ish years. Give or take. There’s been the occasional date to functions and weddings, but I don’t count them.” 

“Fine. Since I’m not supposed to focus on the dates, what was the point in all that? You’re a dependable, mature adult?” 

“I’m _available_ ,” I tell him, drumming my fingers over the table. “Harry would be an obvious choice to boost viewer numbers, but he’s busy and on track for another promotion soon. I presume they want to continue promoting him until he’s head of the department and can retire in comfort.” 

Draco snorts and mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “lazy tosser,” as he reaches for his drink. I bite my lip at old rivalries. And how they never fully go away. 

“Then there’s Ron who’s notorious for loving food,” I continue. “He’s doing well with managing the chain of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes in Paris, though. He and Gabrielle have two children, and he didn’t want to be away over the weekends. Neville is teaching at Hogwarts and leading various herbology clubs and projects on the weekends. Dean and Seamus are all settled in with their lives and pub. Other young people to draw viewers are having kids or working and traveling. My name itself is still known, but _The Daily Prophet_ isn’t following me everywhere for the next baking scoop. I’m here. Holed up in the basement of St. Mungo’s, and, and—I’ve forgotten where I was going with this.” 

My cheeks flame and this is humiliating. I don’t remember the last time I’ve spoken this much about myself, and not just work. 

Draco doesn’t seem to mind, though. He certainly doesn’t tease. He’s very matter-of-fact as he answers: “No date. Seven years. And why they asked you to judge when you’ve no use for fame and attention.” 

“Oh. Right.” This is ridiculous. I’ve apparently forgotten how to have a normal conversation with another human. Brilliant. (Or maybe it’s that he’s handsome and fit and I’ve been lost in his eyes no less than three times already? I shake my head of this consideration. It’s not permissible for that to be true.) “I’m busy. There’s working, and… I’m busy.” I bit down on my lip and consider him. Consider this. Then go for honesty and add, “Well, and, there’s the fact no one is asking.” 

“Why aren’t you doing the asking then?” There’s a genuineness in his ask. An honesty. It feels like such a Harry or Luna thing to ask me...

“I talk myself out of it if the notion comes to mind.” I shake my head as I reach for my drink. Something about him makes me want to be honest. With myself. With him. It’s frightfully disarming. “And I’m a little afraid. Ron was hurt that I never prioritised him above studying and Healer training.” 

“Rubbish.” Draco scoffs and brings his right ankle over his knee. “It’s usually not ‘always’ one way or another in relationships. Not that I have much experience, but even my own mother wouldn’t say it was always all bad with Lucius. I remember stretches of years when she laughed and smiled. When I’d catch her looking at him and know she loved him.” 

“Past tense?” _Shut it, Hermione_. _Very personal ground now. Dangerous ground._

Draco only smiles softly and amends his response. “Loves. Present tense. She still visits him frequently. And I’m aware you do more than work. Mother tells me of your volunteer reading days at the orphanage.” 

“It’s just weekly story time.” I shrug it off. It’s been part of my life for more than five years now. Something to help ease my mind and unwind at the end of a long week. “We’ve read our way through hundreds of Muggle children’s books and novel series by now.”

“And you’re usually the baker for their monthly birthday parties, even if you can’t attend.” He tilts his head. “Or so I’ve also been told...” 

My cheeks are heating again. No one ever asks about the details of things I do. Or… perhaps they do and I take it for granted and give a perfunctory answer by now. “Some of the children like to help by now. We do all the work in their kitchens, but I usually have work at home to get back to afterwards.” 

“Sure,” Draco nods and drops his foot back to the floor. Leans forward and reaches for his beverage. “I’m not trying to embarrass you in any way, or make a statement with how you spend your time. I am merely pointing out that I think there was more thought that went into selecting you as a judge than you think. You do more than you give yourself credit for. And you’re certainly far from the mundane spinster you described yourself as.” 

“Thank you.” Flaming. My face is on fire and I can’t hold his gaze anymore. It’s possible I need to leave. I don’t want to leave, though. He’s stoked my curiosity now. “You seem to know a lot about my time,” I murmur, pinching off a small bite of bun. 

“I only know what Mother tells me now that I’m back in the country. For good this time.” He pauses to sip his drink. “I tried to talk her into dinners, but she prefers a weekly high tea. Scones, buns, jams, curds, clotted cream, and a dozen varieties of tea, even when I always pick Earl Grey. And formal attire always. I once arrived fresh from my lab with my sleeves rolled up and she scolded me for my tattoos—”

“Tattoos?” My eyes lock on his sleeves. Keen with interest. “As in plural?” 

He blows out a breath. 

Reaches for the cuff of his right sleeve.

Releases the button. 

Starts to roll up the grey sleeve. 

“I had them done while I was in India. Six or seven years ago now.” 

_Them. Plural. Multiple._

I don’t realise I’m one of those people who swoons and gets all weak in the knees over body art even while sitting down… until I _am_ one of those people. It’s intoxicating watching him roll up his sleeve, slowly and with precision to keep from wrinkling his sleeve. Then, _then_ , there’s the way he turns his arm so I can have a better look at the image on his toned forearm. 

A dragon. Smirking with some hidden knowledge. It’s long body winding around the trunk of a…

“Is that a particular tree?” 

“A hawthorn tree. For my first wand.” 

I lift my eyes to his. Hold his gaze. “What wood do you have now?” 

His lips quirk in a way like he’s about to laugh at himself. ( _Since when do I take such notice of lips? Mine and his._ ) “Believe it or not, Acacia. The wood is infamous for being temperamental and loyal to a fault. Only producing magic for its owner, and well known for adding to spells to impress its owner.” 

“Curious it didn’t choose you to begin with.” I tease and return his smile and drop my gaze to his arm. “We all went through our own trauma’s and of course you needed a wand you could rely on to always be yours in the aftermath of it all.” 

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything as he studies his own arm. As if he doesn’t take the time to look at it much anymore. “Theo and Blaise were with me on this trip. We all went together for something. It took a couple of visits to get the black ink of the dragon and tree all filled in.” 

“Sounds like something fun and bonding. Harry, Ron, and I talked of getting one done together after—well, sometime that summer before eighth year started. It never ended up happening though. Between Auror training for Harry and Australia for me, we never made the time for an outing when we were all together. It was enough to sit and be together.” 

“Makes sense. How are your parents?” He begins to roll his sleeve back down. Set himself to rights. Regain composure...

 _No_ , I stupidly, silently protest. “They’re good.” I don’t look away from his arm. “Healthy and thriving with their practice. Still no memory of me, but don’t distract me—you said ‘tattoos’. As in multiple. Are you counting the dragon as one and the tree as another?” 

“No.” A pause. Then: “They’re on my left arm. Over my faded…” He trails off, looking around the cafe. 

It’s thinned out even more now. Only a couple of patrons, and the two workers are busy cleaning behind the counter. No one is watching us. No one is curious. 

Still. 

“I understand.” I’ve asked for something personal. Delved deeper into the subject of our history without meaning to. I can’t decide if this is worse or better than if I’d revealed all the technical challenge bakes to him instead… It certainly feels as personal and murky as that. “You don’t have to show anything. You keep your sleeves long so you don’t have to talk about them, right?” 

“Yes and no.” I’m shocked as he reaches for the sleeve of his left arm. Releases the button of that cuff. And begins to roll. “I don’t mind discussing them when asked, but Mother has voiced concerns of self-branding and portrayal of image and all that rot. Ironic, of course.” He makes slow, careful work of this sleeve and I’m transfixed. Glued to the sight of writing on his wrist. Then something that looks like… 

“Stems.” I blink as he rolls. Blink again. And again. “Flowers. Flowers over—”

“Over my faded Dark Mark,” he supplies, pressing his lips together. “It’s a bouquet of narcissus and nymphoides peltata. Potter told me how Mother helped him in the forest. How she asked after me. It took some years of counseling for me to work through it all, but she’s always loved me in her own way. And I wanted to find some way to honour my fallen cousin.” 

“Tonks would love it.” My voice is low. Reverent. Slightly watery with unshed tears, too. I clear my throat before reading aloud the inscription on his wrist. “‘ _Amor vincit omnia_ ’.” 

“Love conquers all,” he whispers, and we’re caught. 

Locked in this moment. This time bubble I don’t want to burst. Don’t want to end. I want time to slow down so we can keep talking. I want to apologise for years and years of not keeping up when I’d considered us friendly our eighth year. He’d apologised and we’d moved beyond our differences and past with only a little difficulty… I don’t want to lose this Draco now that I’ve seen him. 

“You should feel free to roll your sleeves up in the tent,” I hear myself saying. “Let George or Lee ask you about them and the cameras zoom in a little bit. People love a good story; you said you went with Theo and Blaise… I’m certain you have plenty of stories to share from that alone.” I try to giggle to lighten my prodding. “At the very least, it’d give you the chance to point teasing in Theo’s direction.” 

“True.” Draco bobs his head and I see his mind whirring. Unspoken thoughts racing across his mind. “I don’t want my story to detract from the bakes, if that makes sense. Not why I’m in the competition, my tattoos, my history, my family or name…” His exhale is heavy and deep as he rolls his sleeve back down. “But maybe that’s only me fooling myself all this time. I still can’t believe I let Blaise talk me into this. Theo, too, for that matter. Now I know he just wanted to humiliate me every opportunity he can.” 

“Git,” I say, meaning Theo. Then try to bring it back to Draco. “The audience loves personal stories. The feedback I hear is everyone watching is intrigued and entertained by all of you. But they’ve especially latched onto the bakers who share something personal. Why they’re there, when they started baking… Something they can identify with. And don’t feel pressured to show your left forearm if you don’t want questions or to cause discomfort. But this is a way for you to share yourself without having to talk about your past.” 

He doesn’t answer as he buttons his sleeve. I pinch off another bite of bun. He takes a long sip from his drink. Swallows. Lowers the mug and cradles it in his hands. “I’ll think about it,” he finally says. 

“All right.” 

“All right,” he parrots. He sets his mug on the table between us and leans back in his chair again. “Tell me, do you frequently have to fund your own proposals for St. Mungo’s?” 

“No!” _Liar_. The question is so unexpected, so off the current topic, I’m immediately defensive. And answering as if this were Harry worrying after me again. Someone looking out for me. I bite down on my lip, then admit. “That is… not _too_ often.” 

He makes a worried sort of face at me. “Granger…” 

I lift a shoulder. It’s useless to try and hide the truth. “Fine, at least half the time, but to be fair, I was informed it would likely be this way when I requested the change in my career focus.” 

“You’re a brilliant healer and you volunteer on the side.” He makes a tsking sound and threads his fingers together. Long, delicate fingers… “Not to mention the fact you’re a war hero. Seems they’d be amenable to whatever you wanted.” 

“Ah, but not at the expense of a budget, donors, and a board that debates funds spent on ‘needless research frivolity’.” I hear those words often enough. They sting just as much to this day. 

“Needless research friv—” Draco sputters and all but jumps from his seat. “You’re _joking_!” 

My head shakes. “Not at all. My second full year as a healer I knew I wanted to devote more time to research. I didn’t have a focus on potions and their side effects at the time, but the day-to-day ailment of ‘my brother charmed my shoes and I can’t get them off’ isn’t where my passion lies. I worked and observed and made lists for a year. I planned and went to my supervisor about creating a research position and he laughed me off. Informed me then and there of the lengthy and expensive process for studies, and apparently that’s why they generally leave all that to various masters. And hire out healers and medi-witches as consults when requested.” 

“Ridiculous.” To his credit, Draco appears as offended as I felt that day hearing this speech. “When did you convince them to seeing your point of view?” 

“Two years ago.” Memories flood my mind. All I’ve poured into this. All I’ve given up for this work that supports me less than half the time. “I spent the next three years after that talk taking every extra shift permissible to save galleons and learn where we lacked. I met with master potioneers to talk about their methods and made general inquiries. It seems an easy concept, switching out the ingredient known to cause certain side effects for two or three others and achieve the same result.” 

Draco snorts at that. “I can imagine how those conversations went over.” 

“I’m sure...” I keep forgetting he has been awarded two different potion masteries by now. I’m an idiot and should have been talking with him about this ages ago. “A lot of old crones I found. All of them unwilling to talk of alterations in published methods that have been followed for decades. Centuries for some.” 

“Yes,” he agrees. “Which is precisely why I obtained my mastery in alternative and holistic potions first, then acquired the certified potion mastery, accredited and accepted everywhere.” 

“Fascinating.” I lean forward and ask him to tell me more. 

There’s a gleam in his eyes. “With pleasure, Granger.” 

* * *

My wish comes true.

Time ceases. The magic of the night goes on for ages and ages.

We don’t stop talking for an hour. Draco gets up suddenly and I worry I’ve done or said something. Or he’s remembered who we are, our pasts and current roles on a competition… But I’m pleasantly surprised when he only marches to the counter for an order. 

He returns with a plate of two difference sandwich halves and offers one to me. 

I hope he doesn’t see me blush as I accept. 

We eat and talk more. About his travels across India, Thailand, Malaysia, and the Philippines. He tells me how he got into cooking. Then baking. He shares how he wants to open an apothecary in that vacant building next door. I listen and listen, too caught up to ask many questions. 

It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time. 

Too long, perhaps. 

I’m lulled into a sense of calm as we cycle back to bloody cheesecakes and how it’s impossible to flavour them enough to taste delicious. 

“Chin up,” I encourage him. “You’ve made it to the next week, which seems like it’d be just right for you. 

“Alternative ingredients.” He bobs his head. “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been planning for this week since I was accepted into the competition. And pastry and botanical week. And then there’s patisserie week—Merlin, and _chocolate._ ”

His eyes are bright. Alive and glinting with the thrill of competition. I’m reminded of the child who wanted to catch the Snitch before Harry every time Slytherin matched against Gryffindor. I need to change the subject again.

Before I cross a line. “I thought of writing to you over the years. Many times in Healer training. Then again when I’d heard from Theo or your mother about your travels. I’m sorry I didn't; we left on such friendly terms I don’t know why I didn’t.” 

_(Liar_ , my mind tells the rest of me. _It’s because you had a crush and you didn’t want to push things just after Ron. And then because you were afraid. You’re afraid, Hermione Granger.)_

He tilts his head as he locks his gaze to mine. “Interesting you say that—I actually sent you some postcards from a couple of places.”

“You did?” My voice squeaks and I want to hide, but I’m too curious now. 

“Yes. From a magical village in Southern India. And then again while I studied with a potions master in Manila.”

I blink. Speechless for one of the few times in my life. “I’m sorry to say I never received them.” 

“I had wondered…” His words are soft and warm. I’m warm from the inside out. He continues. “I sent them to St. Mungo’s thinking that’d be the best way to reach you. It’s possible that they got lost in transit or never made it beyond their country of origin. Either way... I’m sorry if you ever thought I didn’t want to keep in touch. I was glad we made amends during eighth year.”

“Amends? I would have at least called us friends.” What am I saying? Why am I saying these things? Draco looks like he’s about to say something but stops himself... So I plunge deeper into the holeI can’t seem to dig myself out of. “And as your friend, I’m thinking it’s pretty late, and maybe we should each get some sleep.” 

The words are out before I can stop them. Before I can even think…

But he’s not making teasing suggestions. 

He’s yawning and stretching. 

And flashing me a sleepy smile that melts and molds me in a single moment. Transforms me forever into someone who’s seen something vulnerable and innocent in Draco Malfoy. Something reactive and genuine. 

“Thanks for this, Granger. This was more than fun; I needed it.” 

“Me too.” I stand from my seat and pull on my coat. _More than I can say_ , I add to myself. 

We each yawn and he says he needs to visit the restroom, so I leave first. 

I’m unsteady on my feet as I make for the Apparition point. I can’t explain what’s happened tonight, but it feels new, yet familiar. Warm and safe while being fresh. 

I don’t want this feeling to fade like the stars when the dawn lights a new day. 

* * *

**Draco**

_At least._

She’d said she would have at least called us friends. 

At. Least. 

I can’t stop myself from replaying those words as I finish up and make my way home. 

I wonder what she meant. I was so close to asking her what she meant. 

So. Bloody. Close.

But she wanted ground rules for tonight. 

I can honour that. 

I’ll wait until I’m eliminated or it’s all over to ask. 

But Salazar, I don’t want to be eliminated now. I want to show her everything I can bake. All I can accomplish. 

I’m brimming with business and research ideas now. I don’t stop thinking of how I want to ask if she’d like to partner with me in my apothecary after she completes this next project. 

She deserves so much more than what they’re allowing her. I want to be the one to give her everything she could need or want. I want her to know it’s me giving these to her. 

Want her to want me as much as I want her. 

_Buggering hell._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOVE AND THANKS TO EVERYONE READING 💙💙💙 you make this an absolute joy to share!!!!
> 
> NIFFIZZLE: you are a wonderful friend and I hope you continue to enjoy! 
> 
> Frumpologist, Boredravenvlaw, and blueeyedsue: you’re a wonderful and encouraging alphabet team and I’m so thankful for y’all! 
> 
> Enjoy weeks 6-8!!!

* * *

**Week Six: Draco**

“Welcome back to another bake off week, everyone.” George Weasley smiles, looking a blend between genuine and devious. “Congratulations again to last week’s Star Baker, Draco Malfoy.” 

Jordan chimes in: “Yes, well done, Draco. A shame we lost Tinker in the mix of it, but that’s the way the COOKIE CRUMBLES, innit?” 

“Foul, Lee.” George gives a look of mock disappointment. “I was hoping you could give me a joke much BUTTAH than that.” 

They chortle on as if they’re the most clever pair with such insightful puns. Aberforth clears his throat loudly, and Granger folds her lips into a thin line, as if suppressing a smile. Or to keep from laughing. 

Fine. 

If they make her happy, it’s all right. 

I don’t have to listen, though. 

So I don’t. 

I’m honestly in a bit of a daze after last week: Star Baker. _Me._ I did that. 

I practiced so much last week, too, because I don’t want to be cut from the tent. Not yet.

So, I had asked Mother all the things Granger baked for the monthly birthday parties, and learned Granger seemed to frequent a carrot cupcake recipe. There were also several lemon and berry blended flavoured desserts she enjoyed with the children, too. 

Needless to say, I’ve planned for the next few weeks, just in case. And no, it has nothing to do with winning or bribery, thank you very much. Granger said “at least,” and I need to know what that meant. I also need to make her eyes shine with delight over something I’ve done. I want her to see how much I care. That I see her. Want to make her smile. 

Bring something good to her life. 

Even if it’s in the form of a sugar-free orange, carrot cake and a dairy-free coconut and berry ice cream wrapped in a lemon sponge…

I did it last week. I can do it again this week. 

“On your mark,” Weasley announces, startling me out of my own thoughts. 

Pastry Week. Signature Bake is to bake twenty-four danish pastries. 

“Get set,” Jordan calls out. 

Mine are spiced dates with maple icing kites, and a dark chocolate and poached pears swirls.

“GO!” they cheer. 

We seven remaining bakers get to work. I pull out my neatly written parchment of recipe and method and reach for a large glass bowl. I remind myself to aim for proper, neat edges. And that I’m going to go for this book turn method I’d read about and tried once last week. It seemed to work well with creating the layers I’m after. 

Deep breaths. I can do this. 

* * *

Damn. 

Damn, damn, damn. 

_Damn._

I forgot to turn my oven on. 

It’s the technical challenge for a Bakewell tart and I bloody forgot to turn the ruddy oven on. Sitting there like a complete first timer wondering why it doesn’t appear to be baked. 

Merlin’s _balls_. This morning went so well, and this challenge hadn’t been terrible. 

Up till now. 

I’d wanted a decent bake to have me feeling safe in case of some hiccups tomorrow. Because there _will_ be hiccups. The Show Stopper tomorrow is forty-eight phyllo pastry amuse bouches. 

Forty-eight. 

Handmade, fiddly phyllo pastry. 

Cut and wrapped around fillings to create a bite-sized appetizer. 

Everything needs to be precise and neat and small, so of course I wanted to do well enough today for a slight bit of wiggle room. Of course I want to see Granger’s shining eyes focused on me. 

Hear her say, “Well done, Draco.” 

Not sure any of that’s possible _now_. 

It’s hot in this blasted tent with all the ovens running, and I’m pacing. I need to think. Without meaning to, I undo the cuff of my right sleeve and begin to roll. Or shove. It may definitely be a shoving up of my sleeve, because that’s what I do when pacing over a botched potion at home. The left sleeve is next and I decide to increase the temperature five notches. 

And keep pacing. 

Kingsley tells me to breathe, and that I’ll still have time to at least pull it out. Padma and Astoria offer me smiles. 

Theo props himself against my bench, mouth open as I look right at him. Right at him, begging him as silently as possible that whatever he’s about to say, he won’t. Not right now. I presume he understands my unspoken plea for silence as his mouth snaps shut and he simply nods before turning and heading back to check his own oven. 

I alternate between pacing and watching my tart bake. 

Theo and Astoria are the first to pull their tarts out and are fanning their bakes by hand to cool them off before adding the icing. Professor Sprout has charmed a spoon to keep stirring a bowl of white icing as she’s checking her oven again. I think that’s a brilliant idea and reach to follow suit… 

Only, I’m not going to have time to ice completely, I realise. 

The top won’t be sufficiently cool and set for it. I decide it’s best to have a proper bake over completed icing and prepare my piping bag of pink icing for an attempt of light decoration. There’ll be no “feathering” as specially asked for in the recipe. 

Oh well. 

Tarts come out of the oven and I bend over to look in on mine. 

Not quite. 

I lean over my bench, fingers drumming against the wood. The dragon looped around his tree reminds me of a wiggling worm. 

“Two minutes!” Jordan calls out. “Two minutes left before time’s up, Bakers!” 

Right then. Two minutes left and that’s got to come out. I’m pleased the colour actually looks decent as I pull out my tart and begin fanning over it to cool it. There’s no magical way to cool it perfectly. At home I’ve accidentally frozen pies or mucked up the pastry somehow when I’ve tried. 

So I fan and fan. Then add the white icing to the edges of the pie and line the pink icing across. 

Time is called and I’ve no idea what’s going to happen. 

But I’m pleased with the colour of that crust, so I hope for the best. 

* * *

**Week Seven: Draco**

It’s raining today. Dumping sheets of water all around the tent. 

I survived to bake more after the nightmare of an entire quarter hour of an oven off from last week. I double check, sometimes triple check, my oven this week. Hannah made star baker with her brilliant looking and smashing tasting Showstoppers last week. Apple and sausage for one, and I can’t remember the other right now, but it was damn delicious.

Padma was cut from the lineup. Poor girl had to start over with her phyllo pastry and it set her way behind. She still had some baking when the time was called. 

I’m relieved for another week’s worth of three chances to make Granger smile. 

So far so good, I think. I check my rolled up sleeves, making sure they’re going to stay in place. All bakers are in the tent, waiting for Granger, Aberforth, Weasley, and Jordan to make their entrance for the camera. 

I breathe. _Calm._

It’s Botanicals Week, and I’m doing all right so far. Yesterday’s showstopper was a citrus meringue pie, and I did all right. Or better than, because Granger went in for _four_ bites. _Four._ I didn’t think it’d be anything especially exciting or unusual, and I certainly didn’t expect to be the only one to try a key lime flavoured pie with swirls of Italian meringue. I was, though. Kingsley and Astoria both ended up baking a grapefruit pie, Astoria’s with ginger, and Kingsley’s paired with oranges and mint. I enjoyed both too much to pick a favourite between. 

Theo and Hannah also ended up both with lime and coconut bakes. I didn’t tell Theo I preferred Hannah’s. I don’t stoop to his level. 

I came out second in our leaf-shaped bread (fougasse) Technical Challenge yesterday. And right now, I’m feeling quite good about this three tiered floral cake Show Stopper about to kick off. We can use any sort of fruit or flower flavouring to our bakes and decorations. My base layer tier is going to be a cherry and almond sponge, with the second tier as an elderflower and lemon drizzle, and the top tier is a hidden strawberry vanilla cake. 

My Swiss buttercream and homemade elderflower cordial and elderflower extract is delicious. Mother liked it, so at least I’m not the only one. 

The co-hosts and judges enter the tent. All I can think is that I hope I can delight Granger so much her eyes sparkle today. And she goes back for second and third bites of each tier. 

I catch her eye as Weasley and Jordan introduce today’s challenge for the cameras. Her gaze bounces between my face and my revealed tattoos. Weasley already made a big to-do over them last weekend for the cameras, so today’s attention should be minimal. The corners of Granger’s lips quirk and I catch her folding her lips into a tight line. Her fingers lace together over her denims, and with the way her curls have spilled around her shoulders, I’m done for. Caught up in her beauty and poise. I’m lost to the brief fantasy she’s forced herself to stop smiling so as not to appear too excited over my revealed tattoos. 

I want to break through her composure with a solid bake. (I want to run my fingers through her hair, too. Lose them forever to the nest of curls, wind them around my fingers and stroke the nape of her neck. Would she smile then? Or sigh something contented and turned on?) 

“On your mark—”

“Get set—” 

“BAKE!” 

I shake myself, shoving at distracting fantasties. _Breathe in. Breathe out._

* * *

“Lovely piping, Draco,” Granger says, looking from me to the cake and back to me. “It’s neat and everything appears so crisp and beautifully done.” 

“Thank you.” I’m holding my breath as they cut into the top layer. I don’t often choose pastel colours for decoration, but the pale yellows, pinks, and reds seemed to match the theme inside the cake, and I tried for it. 

Aberforth takes the first bite. Chews. Swallows. “Suttle flavour, that one. Maybe too subtle. I’m having a difficult time finding anything to stand out.” 

“It’s not overwhelming, that’s certain. I am getting the vanilla, though, and—” Granger breaks off a second bite with her fork. Her pink lips close over the utensil and I think of many things to keep from losing my head over watching her chew, swallow, and look pleased. “It’s a nice bake. Moist and light.” 

“Your second layer appears the right texture, too,” Aberforth interjects. “It cut through quite well, and—” He chews and chews. And swallows. “Yeah, it’s not bad. Elderflower isn’t my favourite, but you’ve paired it well with the lemon.” 

“Agree.” Granger’s tongue darts out to lick her lips as she eats a second bite of tier two. 

“Thank you.” I will myself to remain composed and still as they cut through the final layer. My hands are folded together behind my back so they can’t see how hard I’m squeezing my fingers against each other. 

“Good distribution of the cherries,” Granger notes as they study their slice from the third tier. “Lovely crumb and magical fruity flavour. All in all, I’d say well done.” 

Aberforth nods and I thank them again. I can’t fight the smile as I carry my cake back to my station. 

It’s hard to focus on anything beyond the memory of Granger’s delight; the way her eyes shone and how she licked her lips to savour the flavour of my cakes. I admit to getting lost in a few fantasies while sitting on the bench. I hope the camera doesn’t focus on me too much. I hope it follows the bakers presenting. 

I hope I managed to pull it together enough to appear appropriately congratulatory for Kingsley when it’s announced that he’s Star Baker this week. That’s all right, I’m not concerned with winning. I’m not even concerned with public opinion anymore now. I just want Granger to keep enjoying my bakes. Need to find newer and better ways to have her satisfied, and have a reason to dart her tongue over that lush mouth…

I miss when they announce who’s leaving, but Astoria gets off her bench first and I’m suddenly off and joining in with the goodbye and condolences hugs. Theo keeps his hand at the small of her back until they leave together—a small gesture, but one that speaks volumes of their unity. I find myself longing for a relationship like that. One of comfort and support. 

Granger catches my eye before I make for the Apparition point. She offers a smile and a small wave before walking with Aberforth and the camera crew for what I presume are some final interviews for the day. 

She holds my stare as they begin walking, and for the first time ever, I find myself believing a proper relationship with the witch I’ve pined after for so long isn’t outside the realm of possibility. 

* * *

**Week Eight: Draco**

Breathing. 

I’m breathing as I’m reading the brief for our technical challenge and that’s helpful.

I read through it all a second time. Study the ingredients on the bench. And read through the ingredients and sparse instructions a third time. 

We’re to bake little mochatines. I’ve never heard of this before, but it seems to be a genoise sponge cut into mini cakes with buttercream between the layers and coating the outside. There seems to be a coating of hazelnuts and little piped rosettes on the bottom and top… Then some fondant. 

My fondant always has a time setting, but I’m confident in my genoise sponge. It’s Mother’s favourite and I actually just baked her a summer fruit cake with this sponge last week for a break between competition practice. The trick is to whip enough air into the mix—and the trick I read from a recipe book is that if you can draw a number ‘8’ into the whisked eggs and it holds for more than three seconds, it’s ready for the next step. 

I’m patient and plotting out what’s to be done next as the eggs are whisking. Precision seems to be the key in this challenge. Precision and neatness. Even lines, clear layers and careful application of icings and nuts. 

Breathe out. Cut and measure out the butter for melting. Breathe in. Think of an impressed Granger. 

Carry on. 

* * *

“Hello, hello, hello, Draco!” Jordan is all smiles and energy this morning and part of me wants to challenge him to a race on a broomstick just to bring him down a few notches. 

The other part of me is as excited as he is. 

“Good morning,” I answer as Jordan and the judges crowd around my bench. 

“Right, so a reminder to our audience at home,” Jordan says, looking away from me and to the camera, “Draco here came in first in yesterday’s technical challenge and impressed our judges with his Signature Bake cream horns. What flavours did you use again, mate?”

I keep myself from wincing at the term of familiarity. We’re not mates, and I don’t intend on us ever being so, but… polite composure and all that. 

“There was a lime curd and mascarpone cream horn and then a malt and honey crumble cream horn. And I used a full puff pastry with a blend of strong and plain flour.” 

“Will you be using a blend of strong and plain flour in your Showstopper today?” Aberforth has way of making every question sound as an accusation. It makes me want to call him names like _git_ , _wanker,_ and _prig._

But I remember he hasn’t had the easiest of lives, and choose to move on until he says the next thing to set my nerves on edge… 

“No.” I drum my fingers over my glass jar of flour. “I’ve practiced this a few times, and found the best results when I used only strong flour.” 

“Excellent.” Granger nods while Aberforth studies me and I start weighing out my flour. 

Religieuse à l'ancienne is the true term for what we’re doing today, and it’s honestly a bit terrifying. It’s two batches of eclairs, and an eclair is fiddly enough on it’s own. My first practise batch was simply to make sure I could bake an eclair properly. Making a proper choux pastry isn’t easily done, but there’s the additional challenge that _these_ eclairs have to stand up and be glued together with something edible to form three separate tiers. There’s to be a shortbread stablising layer between each tier, and… _Salazar_. 

This is quite a challenge. No getting around it, I’m nervous for this bake. I’m _really_ nervous. 

“What will your flavours be for the eclairs, Draco?” Granger asks. 

I can hardly contain the smile splitting across my face as my lips part. “There’s a sugar quill flavoured eclair and then a peppermint toad flavoured.” 

“Candy flavours?” Aberforth confirms. “Just two candy flavours.” 

“Right.” I nod, biting down on my lower lip. I show them my bottles of reduced syrups and essences for flavouring. I’ve worked hard this week. So very, very hard to have these flavours. I’m brimming with excitement for Granger to try them. “I, ah, had a burst of inspiration this week, and wanted to follow through with it.” 

“Brilliant!” Jordan claps his hand over my arm, my _left_ arm. With my sleeve rolled up and flower bouquet on full display. He doesn’t seem to care what may or may not remain underneath. Perhaps it’s a sign less people think of it than I originally thought… Perhaps… Jordan’s hand falls away and he’s bright and cheerful as they move along. “Good luck! Can’t wait to try this!” 

I make a perfunctory response, but I’m not caring if he likes this or not. 

There’s only one person on my mind with this bake. And I want her to love it as much as she enjoyed the candies from childhood. 

Everything goes to plan. 

No, really. It does. 

I couldn’t have asked for a better bake. My fillings set and are the perfect consistency. The icings are a strong candy flavour—it’s like eating sugar quills and then a peppermint toad. Which means they’re not my most favourite of flavours, but I’m not making this for myself. Everything is stable and holding up as I begin construction of this three tiered eclair tower. I decorate with piped buttercream to fill in gaps between, and breathe with relief. 

Time is called and I couldn’t be happier. 

We’re given a two hour lunch break before coming back for the judging—our bakes are supposed to remain standing all that time. Time passes too slow as we’re gone. Even Theo doesn’t try to fill the silence with idle nattering. He’s quiet apart from the occasional comment here and there, and the drumming of his fingers over his legs. 

We return and I’m more than a little relieved mine’s still standing without any issue. 

Professor Spout’s first layer has collapsed into a messy heap of cooked pastry and cream filling under a shortbread disc and two tiers of still standing eclairs. She curses herself for using plain flour. I’m polite and reassuring that as long as it tastes good, that counts for a lot. She nods and attempts a smile. 

I’m eager to get on with it, and grow increasingly impatient to present my pride and joy to the judges. To Granger. I’m the last one up and try not to shake as I make my way up. Careful, easy, steady steps. One foot in front of the other. 

I arrive at the front of the tent. Set my tray down on the presenting table. Step back. 

And wait. 

“Such bright colours for the icing,” Granger praises. “And it seems perfectly set.” 

Aberforth says, “It’s held its shape, too. Well done with your choice of flour.” 

“Thank you.” It’s a measured response. Careful. I don’t want to give away how eager I am. How positively bursting I am as they go for the peppermint eclair first and praise the pastry while they cut into it…

Almost...There…

“Peppermint.” Aberforth’s pale blue eyes go wide and his face does a funny sort of twist. “Em, yeah. No mistaking that as anything else. Good consistency for the filling, and nice texture with your choux.” 

Lovely, lovely. But I’m looking at Granger… 

Whose chocolate-brown eyes are also now wide. 

But not in what I think is a good way. 

And she’s clearing her throat as one does when trying to conceal a cough. 

“It’s… a little strong for me,” she says carefully. 

My heart ceases to beat. I don’t dare take a breath. 

She takes a second bite and chews thoughtfully. “I agree that it’s a well done bake and all the elements have worked together well for you, but the flavour is a little too overwhelming for my taste.” 

Right then. 

I’m falling. Sinking through a metaphorical hole in the floor. 

Flailing.

The only thing to save me now is the sugar quill…

Aberforth purses his lips and frowns trying the second eclair. “Same as the first one. Good bake, not fond of the flavour.” 

I look to Granger and she’s wearing a similar expression. Pushing extra eclair bites around the greystone cutting board as she holds my gaze. 

“It’s a brilliant bake, Draco. So well done with the choice of flour. Such a creamy filling for both. I’m afraid the flavours weren’t my favourite either.” 

“Right. Okay. ” Gutted. Absolutely gutted. “Thank you.” 

I’m numb as I collect my tower and make it back to my bench. Numb and confused. 

So very confused. 

It doesn’t make sense. Mother, Blaise, and Theo all assured me these tasted precisely as the candies, and I believed they did. Granger should have been over the moon for these… 

I simply can’t go home until I have answers. 

Propriety be damned. 

* * *

**End-of-Week Eight: Hermione**

My footsteps are heavy as I make for the Apparition point tonight. It’s not well lit and the moon only provides a slight strip of light through the inky dark, but that’s all right. Quite fitting for my mood, actually. 

A fog looms over my head, and has been all evening with interviews. I’ve been so very down since Draco’s showstopper. He looked as though I’d kicked his familiar, then tossed it over a cliff for good measure. And laughed while doing it. 

For the life of me, I can’t figure out why. 

Or maybe I know and I don’t want to admit it. Not to myself and certainly not to—

“Finally.” 

A figure appears from quite literally nowhere—

Takes me by the elbow—

And vanishes us from the spot before I can act. 

Before I can scream or protest. 

Or even fight back. 

My instincts have slowed over the years it seems, and I’m no longer braced for an attack. 

That doesn’t stop me from shoving my wand at the person holding me hostage once we arrive at… wherever we are. “You will regret kidnapping me, and I suggest—”

Draco holds his hands up. “I wasn’t abducting you, Granger. But I couldn’t think of another way to talk without drawing attention.” 

I blink once. Twice. My wand falls away, lowering to my side. “Draco?! What in the name of— _where_ are we? What were you _thinking_ —Or were you thinking _at all_?” 

My mind is racing, trying to catch up and understand the scene before me. We seem to be in an alleyway now, ensconced in the shadows of a nearby lit lamppost. Draco’s eyes are blazing and his pale blond hair shines under the golden glow. He takes a step back. Back into what looks to be a brick wall. We’re alone and he’s lowering his hands now.

And holding out his wand. 

“You may hold this while we talk if you feel unsafe,” he murmurs. “Though I can assure you I would never bring you any harm.” 

I huff and lick my lips. And swipe my hand at his wand. “Put that away—of course you wouldn’t hurt me, Draco. I know that. I just don’t understand _what_ we’re doing here. Why we’re even here. And why the waiting—were you waiting for me while under a _Notice-Me-Not_ charm?” 

“Yes.” He takes a breath. Blows it out slowly. Drags a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean to give a fright and I can assure you this sort of behaviour won’t happen again—”

“Of course it won’t.” I fold my arms over my chest, chin high in defiance. “I don’t take to being handled so, and if we’re to proceed in any sort of—” 

“Please, Granger.” He shakes his head, carding that same hand through his hair again. “I know, I know. I apologise again. It won’t happen again. But I needed you alone to ask you something. And I needed to _know_ cameras wouldn’t be around for this.” 

I tilt my head. “You could have found me to ask me to wait. It could have been like last time.” 

“I think last time was a risk and a chance, and you and I both know that.” 

I do, but I don’t want to agree. 

So I don’t say anything. 

He fills the silence quickly enough, though. “I need to know, Granger: what in the name of Salazar do you mean that you _didn’t_ like the candy flavours? It was the perfect sugar quill and peppermint toad. I spent hours and hours perfecting the reductions to come up with the perfect taste to blend with the creams and icing.” 

Confused. 

That’s all I am right now. 

He waited and waited under a charm. Snatched me away. Risked my attacking or fighting back. 

All to ask about bloody flavours? 

_He’s still in the competition, though,_ I think to myself. _We even told him Theo just barely came out ahead because of his cream horns and bake today. He did well._

“It was an otherwise perfect presentation, but I just don’t like candy.” 

“What?” There’s a bite to his inquiry. A snap. An incredulous accusation. 

I swallow thickly and hold his stare. “I don’t like sugar quills. I don’t much care for candies in general. I mean, I enjoy the occasional truffle, but peppermint is far too strong. I prefer sweets in the form of bakes and fruity flavours.” 

Draco shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense. I watched you purchase bag upon bag of sugar quills and peppermint toads over the years at Hogwarts. By the bagful.” 

“For my dad.” I take a step up to him, even as I think I should be backing away. Alarms blare in my mind, but I ignore them. I move myself into his space, determined that he hear me out. That he understands… “I bought all those for my dad. He has a terrible sweet tooth, despite his occupation. Harry always let me borrow Hedwig when I wanted to send something middle of the year, and I made sure I was well stocked before holidays.”

“Oh.” 

He studies my face, and it’s only then I realise how close we are. How his heaving chest is so very, very close. And how my neck and shoulders are arched to meet his eye. How warm his breath is over my nose and brow. 

How I think that if I barely reached up, I’d be able to feel the fine silk of his hair under and between my fingers…

“I apologise for the misunderstanding and inconvenience I’ve caused you tonight, Hermione.” He takes a large step to the left. “I assure you it won’t happen again.” 

“Draco—” 

I reach for him, but he’s gone before… 

Before… 

I don’t know what. 

Before I can take hold of him. Lay my hand on his arm… Maybe even hold his hand.

Yes, that would have been nice. 

Slotting my fingers through his to offer a reassuring squeeze would have been lovely. As would asking him to have another coffee to talk some more and make sure things are smoothed over before we parted for the night. 

Congratulating him because he’s made it through to the semi-finals and that’s a _big_ deal. Quite the accomplishment, and I’m so proud of him, and—

 _Godric help me._

I’ve hurt him without meaning to, and I’m desperate to make it right. I don’t simply want to make it right, I _need_ to make it right. 

It consumes my every thought. Seeps into my very marrow. 

I replay how he said my _name_ and this inexplicable need to make sure he’s all right. And knows how much I appreciate all the effort and trouble he went through. 

But I can’t. 

As long as I am a judge and he’s in the competition, my actions are bound. 

Even though I deeply wish they weren’t. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling niffizzle,  
> You’re a gem, a friend, and a gem of a friend! And I couldn’t be more thankful to know you! I hope you enjoy this final chapter 💙💙💙
> 
> THANK YOU ALL!!!! Thank you all for coming on this adventure with me and all the kudos and comments🥰💜it means so much to me! LOVE ALSO TO: Frumpologist, blueeyedsue, and Boredravenvlaw620 for your alpha and beta eyes and work to make this piece half as good as it is! 💙❤️💜 enjoy this final chapter!

* * *

**Week Nine: Draco**

New week. Semi-final. The challenges ahead all involve chocolate and I’ve recovered.

I’ve completely pushed aside my embarrassment and behaviour from last week. I don’t care if I win or lose this week. Everything else pales in light of setting things to rights with Granger. I want this all behind me with a proper apothecary on the verge of opening so I can approach Granger with a business proposition first…

And the offer for _more_ , should she still seem interested. 

I think she is. I hope she is.  
  
I don’t _think_ I misread anything last week. 

She seemed to gaze into my eyes. Seemed to be considering if she should reach up to me as much as I longed to bind my arms around her. 

Close. 

I’d been so very close to crushing her to my chest and holding onto her. Holding _her_ , and murmuring her name as a prayer I never wanted to end. I’ve wondered many times this week how it would have felt to finally have buried my nose and face in her hair. To nuzzle against her. Kiss her soft, warm cheeks. 

Make my way down to her lips…

“Morning all and welcome to the semi-finals.” Weasley greets us and it takes a second to realise they’ve entered the tent while I’ve been lost to my own thoughts. 

I search for Granger’s friendly face—

And am flabbergasted by her absence. 

Not only that—

But—

Another witch stands where she usually is next to Aberforth. 

Jordan gestures over this failed stand-in for Granger. “Hermione Granger’s had to withdraw these last two weeks and while we’re sad for that, we’re grateful for the time she could give us. Mandy Brocklehurst has graciously agreed to fill in.” 

Brockle… housed? Hurst? 

I don’t know. Don’t care either. 

Granger is missing. 

_Gone_. 

Not here. 

For unspecified reasons. 

And it’s ridiculous that I’m supposed to focus on baking a salted caramel, chocolate and peanut tart right now. Unfathomable and inconceivable. 

I only care for her opinion here. 

But she’s gone. 

And I have a sinking feeling I’ve something to do with that. 

* * *

“Did Granger say why she couldn’t return? It’s highly irregular to have a new judge so far into the competition. And one whose tastes we can’t be sure to trust...”

I school my expression into one of accusation, maintaining a typical Pureblood drawl as I make my inquiry to Jordan and Weasley between the Signature and Technical rounds. 

Jordan swallows a large bite of Theo’s tart. “I don’t recall specifics. George?” 

“No.” Weasley shakes his head, twirling his fork in the air. “We received an owl stating something had come up to conflict with her judging the last two weeks, but no more than that. She recommended Brocklehurst, stating she’s a wicked baker and friend and would be more than qualified to judge.” 

“Why didn’t they get her in the first place if Hermione was gonna go all workaholic on us?” Jordan asks. 

My blood boils and I see red.   
A surge courses through my arm, urging it forward. Until my fist makes contact with his face. 

How _dare_ he—

“No teasing about our Hermione.” Weasley smacks his friend in the back of the head, catching me entirely off-guard… Momentarily placating my defensive fury. George’s eyes narrow, even as his fork swipes for another bit of Theo’s dark chocolate and raspberry coulis tart. “She’s the one they wanted from the beginning, but it was always a long shot. There’s no one who works as hard as she does. And no one who’ll be as impartial as her either.” 

I want to point out it’s all the more important she be present here and now. In these last two weeks, or through the semi-final _at least_. 

* * *

I say nothing through the technical challenge. 

It’s… quite ridiculous. Bloody hard, actually.

A chocolate soufflé… which starts with making a proper chocolate crème pâtissière. 

I’ve never made a chocolate crème pâtissière. Why have I never? 

I also can’t recall ever baking a soufflé before, either. Why did I not anticipate this? 

I stir, stir, stir the mixture over a light heat on the stove. I watch it thicken and think of Granger. 

Think of what could have come up to keep her from coming back. 

Weasley’s right, she works hard. Too hard for so little maybe, and that _could_ be it. 

I worry it isn’t, though. The more I stir, the more I’m convinced I have something to do with this. That this is all my fault. I went too far and crossed a line last week. 

I didn’t send her flowers for an extra apology, out of worry they’d be traced back to me and she’d feel necessary to report them to some committee and ask me to be removed… Or remove herself. 

She left anyway. 

I should have sent her flowers. And a basket of assorted baked treats. And another basket of fruits. 

I’ll make this up to her. 

Show her she needn’t have worried for me.

I can win this on my own, then apologise as I should have before. 

* * *

**End-of-Week Nine: Draco**

It’s completely frustrating that Theo’s now won Star Baker for the second week in a row. I can’t remember if he’s won it before now, but this is… frustrating. 

Incredibly frustrating.

He’s going to be insufferable after this. Not that he already wasn’t, but even more so now. 

Kingsley’s chocolate biscuit creation was a crumbly mess, and I hate to admit it, but I didn’t much care for whatever it was he added to the biscuit. Not that I say that to him, though. 

I congratulate him on a job well done and move to shake Theo’s hand. Patience is the virtue most needed when dealing with Theo, and I call on every last reserve I have when talking to him. 

The bastard is smiling smugly, something dark flashing in his eyes. “You and me and Hannah. All in the finals.” 

“That’s right.” 

He hasn’t released my hand. I don’t let go. 

Our grips tighten. 

As if to squeeze something out of each other. 

“Pity a particular judge couldn’t be here to be impressed with your bakes this weekend.” Theo speaks without blinking, his handshake slowing into something more deliberate. “You were on point. Well done, mate.” 

I allow the shaking to slow, but don’t let go of his hand. Not yet. “Apparently not as on point as you.” I get one last squeeze in for good measure—

Then drop his hand and breeze past him in one fluid motion. I manage to give a wide berth and don’t look back as I make for the Apparition point. 

We’ll receive our brief for the Signature and Showstopper bakes tomorrow morning, and I intend to get in a good night’s sleep tonight. Prepared to begin to plan to impress. 

* * *

**Week Ten (Final): Draco**

“Welcome Bakers to the finals. Well done, many congratulations on making it here.” Weasley claps his hands at us, and I try to suppress the heat rising in my cheeks. 

It doesn’t work.

I’m bloody proud to be here. 

Never conceived I’d make it this far when applying for this months and months ago, and _now_ —

It’s Brockleherd’s smile at us and joining in with Weasley’s applause… 

Not Granger’s. 

Not _Granger._

I have a plan, though. 

I just need everything to come together for it to work. 

* * *

Everything’s coming together splendidly. Swimmingly, even. 

I’m delighted and elated after that final Signature bake round. Aberforth, the foul, accusatory git himself, not only _liked_ my three tiered filled meringue crown, but _he shook my hand._

Shook. My. Hand. 

He loved my blueberry compote, and then the second raspberry and strawberry compote. 

One would even go so far as to say he praised them. 

And I do. I _do_ go that far. 

I go that far because it helps me keep a clear head for this technical challenge. 

I don’t need to remember that Aberforth also shook Hannah’s hand and all but spouted sonnets over her meringue creation. I don’t need to remember how brilliant her strawberry and mango curd meringue crown tasted. 

Or that Granger— _Hermione_ —isn’t here for this. 

There’s nothing else to focus on but the task of baking a large, singular Victoria Sandwich. 

And no, I’m not joking.

It sounded simple enough, until taking a look at the instructions. It should be noted the instructions are very serious and very not funny as they read: “ _Make a Victoria Sandwich using two 20cm tins, filled with raspberry jam, and a buttercream. Then dust with caster sugar. Please do not confer with the other bakers.”_

“Hang it all,” I mutter and get to work. 

This may be insanity, but I want a decent bake today to feel calm going into tomorrow. 

Because tomorrow’s epic picnic challenge isn’t merely about the contest—it’s about Hermione Granger. And what will happen with her at the final family and friends picnic tomorrow. 

* * *

Done. 

I’ve done it. 

_Merlin..._

Everything in my mind has collapsed into a pile of mush. It's morphed into a glob of goo… and I want to sleep. The rush of adrenaline has leaked from my system, and I’m exhausted. 

I look to Theo as we ready to exit the tent with our overflowing picnic baskets. His face splits into a tired, but happy smile. “Brilliantly done, Hannah and Draco.” 

Hannah and I murmur our praises back. 

What else is there to do? We baked for five hours, then there was another half an hour for presenting our bakes and waiting for the judges to film and confer. My stomach growls and I’m ready to present my hamper. Ready to show it to Mother. 

Then find Granger and present it to her. 

Because it’s all been for her.

Our final bake was to create a picnic hamper fit for royalty: a chocolate celebration cake with twelve savory scones, twelve fruit and custard tarts, twelve mini quiches, and twelve puff pastry sausage rolls. My cake was a chocolate and orange recipe that Mother found from the House Elves in charge of the Malfoy kitchens. It’s been in the family for generations apparently. My savoury scones are a buttermilk, paprika and smoked cheddar. My sausage rolls are herby, and I’ve cooked caramelised onions and cubes of sweet potatoes into my mini quiches because I spent years watching her fill her plate with only sweet potatoes and eat them in a mad dash before running out of the Great Hall for Merlin only knows what. My tarts are strawberry and pistachio, and while not Aberforth’s favourite, I just have this feeling that Granger will like them. 

I know she will. 

Theo, Hannah, and I breathe in a final moment as contestants. Share a final smile before leaving the tent for the final time. 

I’m overwhelmed as the waiting picnic crowd rises and clap. 

Applause.

People are clapping. At me. _For_ me. 

Fine. It’s for the three of us, but I’m one of those three on the receiving end of the applause. 

I don’t realise I’m crying until I reach Mother and she touches her thumb to my cheek. 

“My boy,” she says, soft and motherly, and I’m filled with such joy at being able to share this moment with her. “Happy tears, I hope.” 

“Am I crying?” I want nothing more than to sink into her warmth and care. _Almost_ nothing more. I clear my throat. “Long day already, Mother. And I hope you’re hungry.” I swing the basket around. “Because as much as an appetite as I’ve worked up, there’s no possible way I can eat all this.” 

“You mean _we_ can eat all this,” Theo says, dropping his hamper on the checkered table cloth with an unceremonial _plop_. “Tori and I are eating with the two of you, or had you forgotten about that, Draco?” 

I had, but I’m not admitting that to him. 

“Where’s Blaise?” I ask instead, blinking around the crowds. Studying… Searching… 

“Right here.” The smug bastard appears from nowhere, buffing his nails over his jacket before casting a look over mine and Theo’s baskets. “I hope the two of you don’t expect the five of us to eat all that.” 

“Six!” The exclaimed correction is out of my mouth before I can think to stop it. Not that I’m thinking of much now. There’s only exhausted blank spaces between thoughts of Granger. I attempt a cough and rub the back of my neck. Meet my mother’s arced expression. “That is, I was hoping to ask someone to join us if you wouldn’t mind.”   
  
“Not at all,” she answers, lacing her fingers together. “I see one of your fellow contestants coming this way. Perhaps she’ll know where your mystery guest is among this gathering.” 

“What—?”

“Theo! Draco!” Mrs. Weasley is suddenly there, or _here_ , whatever the proper word is, I no longer know. All I’m aware of is she’s linked arms with Theo and myself and props herself on the tips of her toes to kiss Theo’s cheek and mine. Uncomfortable. I’m uncomfortable but can’t seem to back away from a kind gesture of public affection. “Well done to both of you. Well, well done! The lot of us will be gathered in the middle for a group photo once they’ve named the winner, so no snatching of your prize and immediately disappearing.” 

We nod and make our promises. 

I don’t remember what I’m agreeing to, though. 

I’m looking through the crowd again. Frustrated with every face I see that isn’t—

“She’s not here, Draco.” 

“Pardon?” 

I blink, making an effort to seem confused. Or maybe I am confused. Maybe I’m imagining Mrs. Weasley had dropped Theo’s arm and moved closer to me. 

That she’s now looking between Mother and myself with an air of conspiracy. 

“Hermione.” Ah. Apparently the Weasley matron isn’t fooled for a moment by my effort at anonymity. “She’s at home. Wouldn’t tell me why, just assured me she wasn’t ill.” 

Not here. 

Not _here_. 

Not. Here. 

All of this today, everything in my basket was for her. For _her_. To share with her and Mother, and then whisk her away for an afternoon stroll where we would discuss many things. Possibly even get up to other things that _don’t_ involve talking—

None of that now, though. 

My hopes and plans dashed. Smashed. Obliterated completely. 

It’s all been for nothing. 

And I don’t even know where she lives—

“Perhaps…” There’s a gentle brush of fingers against my left arm, and I all but jump out of my skin in shock. Mrs. Weasley again. She winks at my mother and glances back at me, face full and genuine. Eyes kind and reassuring. “Perhaps you’d like to look in on her yourself after the winner is announced….? To make sure she’s all right….?” 

“Yes.” I’d forgotten it was possible to choke on single words. “Yes, please. Do you know where she lives?” 

“As a matter of fact—oh!” Mrs. Weasley gasps and I’m forced to turn around as well. “There’s Aberforth and that little Mandy—oh! Come on you two!” Mrs. Weasley is shouting now, thrusting me forward and then pushing Theo. “They’re out to announce the winner!” 

* * *

**Hermione**

The final should be over now. The winner should have been announced. I _could_ have it playing on my television, but there was this _thing_ where I was a judge, so I didn’t ask for the Ministry to hook up my Muggle television so I could watch the competition live. 

I didn’t ask them to last week for the semifinals for the sake of appearances. That was also my excuse for this week, but I regret it now. I wish I could have watched Draco. Watched from a completely biased, but safe distance as he meticulously and methodically baked this weekend. I wish I could have allowed myself to attend the final family and friends picnic. To be there in person to congratulate him when he won—

Because of _course_ he won. 

There’s no doubt in my mind that he—

_KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!_

I’m yanked from my thoughts and book that I’ve gone through the motions of reading for the last half hour by a loud rapping at my door. 

And an insistent, “Granger! Granger— _Hermione_. Please, may I come in?” 

“Draco?!” 

I’m up and out of my seat, crossing the distance from my sofa to the door in record time. I fling open the door, and there he is. 

Tousled blond hair, tired physique, a large hamper in his left hand, but _oh_. The way he looks at me… it shoots right through me. 

“May I come in?” 

“Of course!” I move to make room and he crosses the threshold. Into my home. I close the door behind him and try not to wonder what other rooms he’d ask to enter. What other more personal rooms and spaces I’d eventually maybe like to invite him to be with me. “Is the picnic already over?” 

Stupid quesiton. He’s obviously _here_ and not _there_. And he wouldn’t not be there if it weren’t already over, and—

“How is that you’re here?” I ask aloud. Because I’m logical like that. Not welcoming and inviting and playing proper hostess and offering him water or tea and a seat on my sofa. 

“Mrs. Weasley was kind enough to share your address as I needed to ascertain your health in person.” He studies me with a blank face. In utter silence that seems to weigh impossibly more than I can bear…

“Draco—” 

“Are you well?” 

We speak at the same time, but I pause and think. And decide to answer his question before asking my own. 

“I am.” 

He keeps studying me, all of me it seems. Licks his lips. “And… you haven’t been unwell at all in the last two weeks?” 

“No.” I shake my head, suddenly not in control of my own voice. 

“Okay.” He takes a step towards me. Hesitant. Uncertain. _Asking_. 

I take a step to him. 

“You dropped judging.” 

My heart skips one beat. Then again. “I couldn’t continue.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it wouldn’t be unbiased anymore.” 

I don’t offer anymore than that. Dare not admit more than what he’s here to say. Here to offer to me. I think he could break my heart. I even think I’m okay with that risk… but maybe _after_ a lot of good and wonderful and beautiful things have happened between us first. 

He pulls up the hamper from his left side. His final bake: the massive picnic hamper filled with an almost insane amount of bakes.

And he’s brought what seems to be a massive share of it here. _Here._

“I baked everything in here with you in mind.” He levitates it to my coffee table and takes two steps towards me. 

So that he’s closer. So that he’s only a breath of a distance from me now. Leaving little room for question or wonderings at this chemistry and connection between us—if I’m reading the signs right, that is. 

It’s been some time for me, though. 

His grey eyes are molten silver. They lock onto mine. Sear into my heart and soul. I think it’s impossible to misinterpret a look like _that._

“Every last bake I’ve been able to plan and practice has been for you, Hermione Granger.” He floats a hand up. Brushes two fingers against my jaw. Then runs his thumb over my cheek. “Every. Last. One.” His voice lowers and drops with each word, and he’s close. He’s so, so close. 

I close my eyes and lean into him. Lean and melt into his chest and breathe. Breathe in the aromas of caramelised onions and sweet potatoes and citrus and chocolate… and all things heavenly and wonderful. I don’t know if that’s naturally Draco, or a result of the bakes, but I’m more than willing to get this close to him again and find out. 

“I believe you.” I tilt my head up and he dives his fingers into my thick curls, brushing them away from my face. Smoothing his hands over my hair. Over and over. It’s mesmerising. Captivating. I don’t want him to stop. “After the quarter finals, and you needed to ask me about the sugar quills, and you said you’d watched me buy them all those years… I couldn’t stay.” 

“Because you didn’t know how to let me down?” There’s an edge to his question. A sharpness as if bracing himself for the ultimate heart shattering… 

Daft, thick wizard. 

I reach my hand to his face now. Cradle his cheek in my palm. “Because my first instinct after you left was to go after you and make it right. And then find some present as a grand gesture because that’s what I _do_. I give gifts, I make gifts, I apologise, and I offer my help and time when I’m invested. I was more invested in you that any judge has the right to be. And I didn’t want to _not_ be.” 

His eyes fall shut and he nuzzles into my touch, and I think this may be the most perfect moment I’ve ever experienced. 

“You wanted to get me a present?” His words are sweet and innocent. Almost wonderstruck. “Only Mother and Theo give me gifts these days.” 

“I’m sure you’re leaving a few people out, but the point is that I did get you something. Without question or thought to propriety. And I marched myself to the owlery at Diagon Alley after doing so to pen a letter resigning as judge and recommend Mandy.” 

His eyes are open now, and they shine. Iridescent in their fathomless shades of grey and blue. I think I could be all right to sink into his eyes. To drown and never be found in his gaze. 

“You bought me something?” A smirk curls up his face. “A bauble or trinket to claim me as your own? I’m flattered, Granger. Truly. But don’t you think we ought to at least kiss or have a proper dinner together first?” 

Something between a huff and a laugh bursts free from my lungs and I back away from him. Not that I want to, but it’s necessary in order to reach for my wand and summon what I’ve wrapped for him and kept in my room. A large parcel flies to my hands and I hand it to him. 

“Open it.” 

He doesn’t at first, though. He simply stands in my flat, holding it out, studying it. 

“This… isn’t some useless bauble is it?” 

I bit down on my lip. “Not exactly.” 

His throat bobs. “All right.” He unwraps the gift slowly. Taking care with the string and paper. 

They fall to the floor and he can see it now. 

The large accounting ledger I found for him. 

“It’s for your shop,” I begin to explain. “You may already have one, or have a better one already. I searched an hour and asked as many questions as I could think before deciding on this one and— 

I don’t get to finish my sentence.

That’s fine. 

More than fine, actually. 

Because Draco’s kissing me. Pillowing my lips with his in a slow first kiss and nothing else matters right now. 

* * *

**Draco** ****

She tastes sweeter than I ever imagined. Sweet and deep like the best cup of tea and I don’t ever want to stop kissing her. I start slow, asking permission to continue, waiting for her response. 

She opens her mouth to mine. Twists her wrists around my neck and threads her fingers through my hair. 

I am lost. I am found. 

I trip over the ledger I dropped to the floor and we land on her carpet in a heap of limbs and laughter. Her palm flattens over my cheek and my fingers dive into her curls, and we’re a tangle of limbs and kisses for a very long time. My heart beats to her every sigh, moan, gasp, and groan.

All the things I’d come over to tell her are forgotten for now. The bit about Hannah winning and taking over _The Three Broomsticks_ like she wanted—I’ve no memory of that at all as Granger’s hands tug at my shirt, pulling it from my trousers. That I’d like her to come and work with me, be a part owner in this apothecary… that’s nowhere near my mind as her hands trace over my taut abdomen and I’m pulling curves flush against me. 

Kiss now. Snog for as long as she’ll allow here and now. I’ve conveniently brought food to suffice for dinner if she’d like… 

Or we can go out. 

Whatever she wants. 

The woman I’ve loved for years is in my arms at last, and I’m in no rush. 

And I will happily bake my way through any and every mountain of requests she’d ask of me. As long as this would be my own guilt-free dessert at the end of it all.   
_  
fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!


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